


Heaven's Tartan Ink

by rapunzel713



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author is ace, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Lesley is underrated so let's make him a tattoo artist, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Tattoos, Wingman Eric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28491738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapunzel713/pseuds/rapunzel713
Summary: Crowley wants to get a cover-up tattoo, and finds an artist that appeals to him. Turns out Aziraphale appeals to him in more ways than one.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Lesley, Aziraphale & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Disposable Demon (Good Omens)
Comments: 178
Kudos: 150





	1. Consultation

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the Pufferfish Yoghurt Starters on Twitter for encouraging me and squealing over the snippets I send them. <3 And thanks to KissMyAsthma for the idea of Crowley's tattoo, which was the inspiration for this fic!
> 
> I've been tattooed a few times but I am not a tattoo artist. The majority of my knowledge comes from Ink Master. All mistakes are mine. :)

“You sure this is the right place, man?”

Crowley, already opening the glass door, paused long enough to re-read the name on it: Heaven’s Tartan Ink — Tattoos by Aziraphale Godwin.

“Yep,” he confirmed to Eric, popping the “p.” “This is it.”

He swept into the shop, leaving Eric to get over its name at his own pace. A short, narrow hallway funneled him into the shop proper, and he came to a stunned halt.

The pictures on the website had given him an idea what to expect — contrary to his original assumption, not _everything_ was blanketed in tartan — but whoever had taken those pictures was clearly skilled at making things look bigger than they really were.

What the site described as “cosy” was actually cramped and cluttered. The waiting area on his right could have been taken straight out of the Victorian Era, complete with settees for customers and velvet curtains framing the windows. Small tables next to the furniture were completely overrun by vases of flowers and trinkets. Crowley spotted a wooden clock on one and a collection of small silver boxes on another.

Where other tattoo shops might display their artists’ work, Heaven’s Tartan Ink had decided to display books. And there were _so many books_. Bookshelves covered every spare inch of wall that wasn’t already occupied by windows or the dark fireplace. In fact, books lined the mantle of said fireplace, and there were makeshift shelves in the fireplace itself.

Once he’d gotten over the…experience that was the waiting area, Crowley finally found the counter buried under towers of books. If he leaned around it, he could see another narrow hallway burrowing further into the shop.

“Uh…Crowley?” Eric must have made it inside after all. “This doesn’t really look like our scene…”

“Would you settle down?” Crowley rolled his whole head — the only way for a man in sunglasses to show he was rolling his eyes. “I didn’t choose this place for the aesthetic, I chose it for the artist.”

“That Azrif-whatsit guy?”

“You know, I didn’t have to bring you,” Crowley reminded him.

Eric’s offended gasp would have been perfect for dinner theatre. “I’m your moral support!”

“I don’t need moral support. It’s a consultation.”

“A consultation involving a traumatic experience!” he insisted.

Crowley scoffed. “Being an idiot kid is hardly a traumatic experience.”

“Well…”

“Just admit you want your own tattoo.”

“I don’t! I told you, I’m your moral support!”

A throat cleared behind him. “Are we getting a tattoo today, chaps?”

Crowley spun on his heel to find the counter now staffed by a mild-mannered-looking man. His tan button-down provided a neutral backdrop to the colorful tattoos covering his arms and neck. He wore multiple piercings in his ears. If the man wasn’t already in the tattoo industry, Crowley had a weird sense that he’d have been right at home as a delivery man.

“No tattoos today,” said Crowley. “Are you Aziraphale?”

“No, sir. I’m Lesley. Aziraphale’s in the back.” He pointed back down the hallway as if that helped explain things.

“Right,” he drawled. “I have a consultation with Aziraphale.”

Eric helpfully jumped in with, “He wants to cover up a — oof!”

Crowley removed his elbow from his aiming-to-be-an-ex-friend’s side, then slung the arm around his shoulders. “Eric. Let’s not get bogged down in details, shall we?” To Lesley, he added, “Name’s Crowley.”

The man just nodded and flipped through the pages of a binder. “Yes, sir, and here you are! Crowley, 3 o’clock with Aziraphale. He’s just cleaning up, so you can go on back. Second door on the right.”

Crowley led the way. As soon as he reached the threshold of the room, Crowley wished that the website had included pictures of the artists. It would have given him a chance to prepare before seeing this vision in person.

Aziraphale wasn’t posed seductively or anything. The man was simply wiping down the tattoo chair with a cloth.

But.

He was wearing a light-colored waistcoat over a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing the tattoo sleeves beneath. The shirt was buttoned all the way up to the top, ending in a tartan bow tie. Minus the tattoos, he could have just walked off the set of a historical drama.

The real treat lay above the bow tie. White, candyfloss hair that Crowley itched to run his fingers through, an open, cheerful face that seemed quick to smile, and a soft double chin that complemented the soft swell of his belly. Crowley couldn’t make out the color of his eyes yet, but he already knew he would get lost in them.

Fuck.

“So you’re the one responsible for the decor around here?” Crowley asked in a preemptive insult. Because self-sabotage was sexy.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s attention snapped to him, and he broke into an easy smile that set Crowley’s heartbeat racing. “Yes! Did you have a chance to peruse the books? It’s a small selection, I know, but they’re hand-picked from my personal collection.”

“Uh, no,” said Crowley, stumbling over the image of this man combing through a library that dwarfed the contents of the front room. “Not yet. S’ nice, though.”

He could feel Eric’s questioning stare at his one-eighty. He already knew it was lame. Shut up, Eric.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale circled the tattoo chair, and now Crowley could see that his blue-grey eyes were positively brimming with joy. The edges crinkled with laugh-lines, and he thanked every star in the sky that his own eyes were hidden by his ever-present sunglasses.

“Let me guess,” said Aziraphale. He pulled off his gloves and offered Crowley his hand. “You must be Anthony?”

He shook the hand — no, he absolutely did _not_ feel any sparks shoot up his arm — but couldn’t stop a wince. “Crowley, actually. Prefer my surname.”

And fuck if Aziraphale’s smile didn’t _brighten_. The handshake ended and Crowley wanted to kick himself for immediately craving more contact.

“Crowley, then,” Aziraphale affirmed. He offered his hand to Eric in turn. “And you are?”

“Eric. I’m his friend, I’m here for moral support.”

“I don’t need moral support,” Crowley said too quickly. He didn’t need his tattoo artist thinking he was _sensitive_.

But Aziraphale’s smile had turned indulgent. “I was once moral support for a friend buying a bouquet for his mother. I imagine this decision will be a tad more permanent than a dozen lilies.” He waved to the tattoo seat and adjacent wheelie stool. “Why don’t you two take a seat? I’ll just be a moment.”

There was no way Crowley was going to sit in the chair like he was at the dentist’s. Instead, while Eric hopped up on the chair, he tried to sprawl on the wheelie stool. He was just realizing that there wasn’t enough space in this tiny room to do that — honestly, he hadn’t even noticed the room until now — when Aziraphale was back with another wheelie stool.

“Tracy is out today, so she won’t mind me borrowing this. Ah.” He took in the seating arrangements and Crowley’s overlong legs. “Apologies. It is a bit cramped.”

“S’alright,” Crowley assured him, since he seemed truly worried.

Once Aziraphale joined them, sitting ramrod straight with his legs together, he and Crowley’s knees were only an inch apart.

“Now. What can I do for you, Crowley?”

Many, many things.

At the same time, that simple question was enough to tempt him to run out of the shop and never come back. There was no way he could admit to Aziraphale that he had a —

“Tramp stamp!” crowed Eric.

Crowley was going to murder him. Drop him into the deepest, darkest pit of Hell — for a start.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Aziraphale politely. “Are you asking me to give you a tramp stamp?”

“I have a shit tattoo on my lower back,” Crowley explained more eloquently, “and I need a cover up. I’ve seen your work, and I think you’re the artist for the job.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s smile was slow this time, but no less pleased. “How kind.”

Kind? It was barely a compliment. Crowley cleared his throat to stop the growl building at the audacity of whoever made this man content with scraps.

Before he could fix his mistake and shower Aziraphale in praise, the artist asked, “And what were you thinking of getting?”

Crowley grinned. He’d thought of the perfect replacement, and the idea sent a thrill down his spine. “Temptation Incarnate. The Serpent of Eden.”

But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he tensed. What if Aziraphale found the idea cliché and just as foolish as the original tattoo?

He needn’t have worried.

“Ah, the Original Sin. A classic theme! I’ve done a number of snakes. Why don’t we look through my portfolios to see if any of them align with what you’re looking for?” Aziraphale slid the wheelie stool forward a little so that he could reach the narrow bookshelf next to Crowley. His fingers wrapped around two tartan binders —

— and his knees knocked against Crowley’s before one slid up against the inside of Crowley’s thigh.

 _Don’t move don’t move don’t move_ , Crowley chanted as sparks leapt across his body and his blood re-routed to a southern destination. _Don’t move don’t move_.

A handful of seconds or millennia passed, and then Aziraphale was scooting away from him with binders in his arms and apologies on his lips.

NO. Don’t think about those!

Aziraphale began to flip through the binders, which were stuffed with pictures of the intricate, gorgeous tattoos he had done over the years. As compelling as the art was, Crowley’s eyes were drawn to the artist’s face, where his cheeks had gained a dusting of pink.

What did that mean? Had he felt it too?

Eric clambered out of the tattoo chair. “Can I see those?”

“Of course.”

If the room had felt cramped before, it was damn near claustrophobic now. Eric was so excited to see the artwork that he stood in the middle of the room, reverently flipping through the binder’s pages.

Aziraphale shot Crowley a sheepish smile. Crowley knew he wanted to see and catalogue every single smile Aziraphale offered the world.

“S’ fine.” Crowley pulled out his phone and began tapping through his photos. “I found a few I liked on your IG and saved them for reference.”

“…my IG?” he echoed.

“Instagram?” When Aziraphale still looked blank, he added, “You know, where you and the other artists post your art?”

“Oh! Yes. I let Lesley handle that for me,” he confessed. “It’s funny. I have no problems handling my taxes on a computer, but societal media always confounds me.”

“Well,” Crowley drawled with fond amusement. “That’s understandable. Taxes are so straight-forward, after all.”

“Precisely!”

Unable to stop the quirk of his mouth, Crowley practically shoved his phone into Aziraphale’s hands as a distraction. His head nearly plowed into the spine of the tartan binder Eric was still flipping through. “These are the snakes I liked. You can slide through to the next photos too.”

Aziraphale hummed as he considered the snake tattoos. “These are all black and grey. Is that what you’re looking for, or are you interested in color?”

“I do have an image to maintain,” he joked, waving to indicate his all black ensemble.

That earned him a new smile: amused but distracted. Aziraphale swiped to the next photo and said, “And yet, you have a red collar.”

Crowley’s hand instinctively rose to adjust his collar. The red was barely showing. How much attention had Aziraphale paid him?

And then half of a tartan binder thwapped the top of his head.

“Oi! Eric what the hell?”

“Sorry! These things are heavy!” He was, in fact, trying to juggle the two binders that were slipping out of his arms.

Aziraphale grabbed one of them and helped him steady the other. “Why don’t you take these out front? You can sit comfortably and use the tables.”

“Brilliant. Thanks.” He piled the binders and turned to leave.

Crowley smirked. “I thought you were my moral support.”

That made Eric pause. He wavered in the room’s doorway for a moment before flapping a hand at his friend. “It’s a consult, you’ll be fine. If not,” he shrugged, “yell.”

And then he was booking it for the Victorian waiting area.

Crowley rolled his head around for Aziraphale’s benefit, but on the inside his stomach was churning. He hadn’t expected to be left alone with the man. If Eric was going to tag along, the least he could do was pull his weight and keep Crowley from being an idiot in front of the hot tattoo artist.

“I think you have your next customer lined up,” Crowley told him.

“It does appear that way, doesn’t it?” he asked with a chuckle. He picked up Crowley’s phone from the wheelie stool — he must have placed it there when he was rescuing Eric from the binders — and handed it back.

Crowley didn’t try to graze Aziraphale’s fingers to feel those sparks again.

Crowley was lying to himself.

“So. What now?” he asked, savoring the sparks running up his arm.

Aziraphale clapped his hands. “Now we need to see what we’re working with. May I see the tattoo?”

Right. Yup. Can’t do a cover up without that. Maybe it wasn’t too late to go with a different artist?

But even as he stood and removed his leather jacket, he knew he wouldn’t bother looking for anyone else. He couldn’t leave Aziraphale behind. The man in the bow tie was the artist for him.

His fingers shook as they lifted the back of his black henley. The fabric slipped away from him, and he struggled to catch it.

Behind him, Aziraphale asked, “May I?”

“Yeah, s’ fine,” he replied, hating the rasp in his voice.

The rattle of the wheelie stool drew closer, and then a sure hand pulled the hem of his henley further up. The cool air caressed his back and he reminded himself to breathe.

The only good thing about having this tattoo on his back was that he didn’t have to see it every day. Back in his early 20s, the words “Abandon all hope ye who enter here” stamped above his ass was the height of cool. The wicked flames surrounding the faux-old English text had also warmed his irony-shriveled heart.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “This is Hastur’s work, I see.”

Crowley’s mouth quirked despite himself. “Yeah. You can tell?”

“His style of flames is quite distinctive.”

Crowley felt the warmth of two fingers trace his skin, and he suddenly had to fight to keep his knees from buckling. But there was nothing he could do to fight the heat radiating out from Aziraphale’s touch as the artist followed the lines of the flames.

Fuck.

It took him two dozen rapid heartbeats to realize that Aziraphale was talking to him. “—need something about three times this size in order to hide it properly. Like this.”

A pair of hands framed an area that encompassed the majority of his lower back. Crowley wanted to nudge those hands further apart until they rested on his hips.

Shit.

“Is that acceptable?” asked Aziraphale.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Course. You’re the expert.” His voice still sounded off, was it off?

“Wonderful.”

Aziraphale’s hands slipped away and Crowley just managed not to chase after them.

“I’ll just need to take a picture. One moment.”

The wheelie stool rattled away. Crowley looked over his shoulder to find the artist leaning over to reach the bottom shelf of a small cabinet.

He immediately faced front. He did _not_ need to make things worse by ogling the man’s backside.

The slight thunk of a closing cabinet door told him he’d made the right choice. Any slower and he’d have been caught.

“Here we are,” declared Aziraphale. “Lift your shirt a little higher, please?”

The fabric of the henley nudged upwards before he could comply. Aziraphale was so close to touching him again — but then he pulled away, expecting Crowley to follow through with the instructions.

As soon as Crowley finished pulling up the hem, he heard a couple of shutter clicks.

“Perfect. Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley let go of his shirt and turned around. He pretended not to notice that it hadn’t fallen into place, that it still left part of his stomach visible.

A digital camera sat on top of the cabinet, and Aziraphale had picked up a drawing pad. He smiled at Crowley, with his entire expression lighting up —

— and didn’t even glance at the bare skin on display.

Feeling six kinds of foolish, Crowley finished tugging down the shirt. Aziraphale was a tattoo artist for fuck’s sake, he saw stomachs all the time, what had Crowley been expecting? That they would dissolve into matching puddles of goo?

They hashed out some more details over the rest of the hour. Aziraphale had another binder or three of art on hand to show Crowley and get a better sense of his sensibilities and what he was looking for.

For his part, Crowley struggled not to let his attraction show. There was no way on Earth he was going to make Aziraphale uncomfortable and give him a reason to show Crowley the door. His ever-present sunglasses helped. He was able to safely observe the artist’s own tattoos, visually tracing each detail. The forearm sitting to his right, for example, was a map of magical props. A deck of cards so detailed and vibrant that Crowley kept wanting to pick them up; glittering coins tumbling past a classic wand; and a swirl of colored scarves twining between the other tricks that disappeared under the roll of his sleeve. Every time he stole a stare he caught more details.

He wondered if Aziraphale had tattooed any of it himself.

When the hour was up, Aziraphale walked him out so they could set up an appointment for the first session. And then Eric popped up to request his own appointment, as Crowley had known he would.

Then it was time to leave. Crowley wanted to say something witty, something impressive…anything to earn him another special smile from Aziraphale before he walked out the door. But all he had to offer was a collection of consonants and a “see ya then.”

Shit.

He was in so much trouble.


	2. First Session, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale begins Crowley's tattoo.

It was half eight by the time Aziraphale strolled into his shop. He’d stayed up later than usual triple- and quadruple-checking his work for Crowley. His last cover up was a few years ago, and he couldn’t shake his nerves. For some reason, he was wary of disappointing this client.

Perhaps it was because the man looked like he worked in organized crime. Or maybe he was a famous musician? If so, he hoped Crowley wasn’t offended he hadn’t recognized him. Aziraphale didn’t really go for bebop.

Speaking of music, Aziraphale selected Tchaikovsky for today’s soundtrack and then put on the kettle. The ritual of preparing tea was soothing, and he settled into it like an evening of fine wine and company.

When he finally joined Tracy in the front of the shop, he was feeling calmer and more alert. The miracle of tea.

He handed Tracy her favorite mug — a 19th century séance scene that, when hot, showed a trio of ghosts joining the spiritualists around the table. She took a sip and hummed appreciatively. “Late start, love?” she teased.

“A half hour before opening is hardly ‘late,’” he scoffed.

“What’s his name?”

He needed stronger tea for this conversation. “Whose?”

“Whoever it was that kept you up late, of course!”

“Hmm, that would be Oscar.”

Her eyes narrowed under false eyelashes. “Another one of your _author friends_ , I take it?”

“You know, I rather think he is,” said Aziraphale in mock-surprise.

Her stern expression broke into a chuckle. But she shook her head. “I’m happy to arrange a proper date between you and Mr. Wilde, love, but I don’t think that would have the happy ending you’re hoping for.” She tapped her mug, where the heat sensitive ghosts were already beginning to disappear. “Would it be so hard to find a man from this century?”

Aziraphale fixed her with a knowing look. They’d had this conversation before. Instead of revisiting it, he chose to slip on his reading glasses and lean over the appointment book to find her next client’s name. “Shadwell? Again?”

“Oooh, yes,” said Tracy, accepting the change in topic. Her eyes danced over her mug. “Mr. S wants a pin-up on his ribs this time. Want to see?”

He nodded, and she handed him a paper from her sketchbook.

His eyebrows shot up. “My dear, this is _you_.”

“Yes!” She laughed. “He was ever so insistent. Took him ages to decide on the gypsy fortune teller get up. I also have a witch version — that I am _not_ going to show you,” she added before he could ask. “Don’t want to be overwhelming your Victorian sensibilities, duckie.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale felt his cheeks begin to burn. “I work in the tattoo industry, I’ve seen naked women before.”

“Of course you have, pet,” she said, patting his arm. “Who’s on your docket, then?”

He hummed. Sipped his tea. “Serpent of Eden.”

Tracy lit up. “That’d be your snake man, yes? Lesley told me about him.”

“Oh?” he asked mildly, removing his glasses. “And what did Lesley say exactly?”

“Don’t get your bow tie in a twist,” she said, pretending to straighten it for him. “He merely said that the man looked like he wanted you to massage his tattoo with your tongue.”

Aziraphale coughed, nearly choking on said appendage. When he caught his breath, he said, voice dripping in sarcasm, “Yes, that sounds like _Lesley_.”

“Well. I may have put my own spin on the words,” she admitted. “But it wouldn’t hurt to put yourself out there sometimes.”

“Crowley is a _client_.”

Tracy’s teasing expression softened. “He won’t always be, love.”

“But he is currently, and that makes this conversation entirely inappropriate,” he told her. He hesitated, then added, “And even if he wasn’t a client, it still wouldn’t be as simple as you’d have me believe, my dear.”

She opened her mouth to say something, though Aziraphale didn’t know what she could say that she hadn’t said before, when the bell above the door rang.

“Oh. Speak of the devil.”

The man himself sauntered into the shop. He was all in black again, making his shock of short red hair even more vibrant. The sunglasses stayed on, as did the harsh line of his mouth that, on a less striking man, would have been called a scowl.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale beamed at his client as he rounded the counter. “Good morning!”

“Right,” Crowley drawled. His hands were…somewhat stuffed in his pockets, considering how tight his trousers were.

Undeterred, he brightly asked, “No Mr. Eric for moral support today?”

That won him a small smirk. “Nah. He’s…excitable. Didn’t want him distracting you.”

“How thoughtful,” said Aziraphale, though he suspected Crowley was more concerned about his friend embarrassing him.

As if sensing his thoughts, Tracy stuck her hand out to Crowley. “I’m Tracy.”

He shook it. “Hail Satan, eh?”

She giggled — _giggled_ — and touched the pentagram hanging from her neck. “Sorry to disappoint, but it’s just for show. Mr. S likes me to wear it.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Now I’m afraid to ask.”

“Yes. Well. Best get a wiggle on.” He waved Crowley through to the hallway. “After you.”

As Crowley passed him, he could have sworn he heard a muttered, “wiggle on?”

Before he could follow his client, Tracy shot him an exaggerated wink.

He scoffed. As she was fond of saying, _cheek_.

Crowley was waiting for him in his room, shoulders hunched over, hands still in his pockets. Aziraphale had noticed last time that the man was…well…jumpy, but this seemed like a different beast altogether. He’d had clients who were nervous about getting tattooed, who were worried about the pain or the permanence. Crowley hadn’t seemed worried about any of that before, but that could have changed.

“Are you okay, Crowley?” he asked softly, not wanting to alert Tracy.

“Yeah,” he bit out. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

“Because we don’t have to begin today if you aren’t up to it.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley insisted, sunglass-tinted eyes meeting Aziraphale’s own. He began to sway. “’Sides, I haven’t even seen the tattoo yet, have I?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and let it go. He’d only known Crowley for a little over an hour. He was hardly an expert on the man.

“Ah, yes. Let me get that for you,” he said, moving to his desk.

Aziraphale was always nervous when he showed someone his drawings. It’d been a long time since he had received a negative reaction, but the fear had never truly left him. It was always a punch in the gut when a person he respected and admired dismissed a piece that he had poured his heart into.

Sometimes he considered it a miracle that he’d persevered in his art and grown up to be a successful tattoo artist.

And sometimes he recognized all of the hard work he had put into it for the strength that it was.

Aziraphale released a deep breath, along with his nerves, and handed Crowley the drawing of his next tattoo.

He hoped that Crowley would move his sunglasses in order to have an unobstructed view of the design — and yes, okay, maybe he wanted to be able to see his client’s reaction — but they stayed firmly in place.

As Crowley’s eyes scanned the paper (presumably), his jaw fell open. Aziraphale’s gut twisted. That looked like surprise, was that good surprise or “no way in hell am I putting this on my body” surprise?

“You — you did this?”

Before Aziraphale could apologize or assure him that he could change it, he added, “It’s perfect.”

“Oh!” Relief and pride welled up in Aziraphale’s chest until he could feel it shining in his smile. “Thank you. I had hoped you would approve of the design.”

Crowley’s Serpent of Eden was a realistic black snake coiled around an apple with two bites taken out of it. Leaves from the Garden helped give the illusion that the snake was larger than what was shown. And the only color in the otherwise black and grey tattoo was the crisp red of the apple.

Black with a shock of red, just like Crowley.

“‘Approve?’” he echoed. “Aziraphale, this is amazing. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was perfect.”

That…that was a lovely thing to say. Aziraphale put a hand to his chest, overwhelmed.

Then, so soft he almost missed it, Crowley murmured, “I knew you were the one.”

Something fluttered in his chest. Now really. What was he supposed to say to that?

Crowley handed the drawing back. “When do we start?”

He beamed. “Take a seat, and I’ll finish setting up.”

Aziraphale had already raised the tattoo chair last night. Crowley would sit backwards, and Aziraphale would be able to work comfortably. As he bustled around the room setting out his inks, bactine, and other supplies, he kept up a flow of conversation with Crowley.

Or rather, he kept up a monologue, with occasional input from the other man. He gathered that it was a little earlier in the morning than Crowley was used to. But his client at least confirmed that he’d eaten a decent breakfast. That was a good first step towards not passing out.

“I’ll just step out to create the stencil,” Aziraphale said. “That will take a few minutes, so you’ll have time before you need to remove your shirt.” He stopped, Tracy’s words from before about massaging with tongues slamming into his brain. He didn’t want to be forward. “That is. Only if you feel comfortable.” Oh no, that was just as bad. He backpedaled even more. “The temperature is always kept low in the shop, I mean, and your temperature will rise while being tattooed, but you still might prefer that extra layer of warmth and —” He snapped his mouth shut before he said anything else foolish.

Thankfully, Crowley didn’t seem offended. “S’ fine. The temperature doesn’t bother me.”

“Yes. Well. Tickety boo.”

He told himself he wasn’t fleeing the room, but he wasn’t making a convincing argument.

As he made the stencil, he wished he was the sort of person who cursed people under their breath, because Tracy deserved it. What was she thinking, putting those sorts of ideas into his head? Anyway Crowley hadn’t once looked at him like…like _that_. Whatever Lesley had told her, she’d _clearly_ gotten the wrong impression.

By the time he returned to his room, he’d managed to get his ruffled feathers back into place. Crowley had removed his leather jacket, but was still wearing the dark grey henley and sunglasses as he tapped on his phone. Based on the arm tucked over his stomach, Aziraphale was willing to bet he _was_ colder than he’d let on.

“Ready!” said Aziraphale cheerily. “Can you please stand for me and lift your shirt?”

When Crowley was in place, Aziraphale aligned the stencil and pressed it to the skin. He’d used the picture he’d taken of Crowley’s tattoo to create a design that would perfectly hide the old one. But aligning the tattoos on the shop computer wasn’t the same as lining them up on the body. He was used to making the attempt multiple times.

But as he peeled away the paper, he realized with some surprise that that wouldn’t be necessary.

“Take a look,” he said, waving to the full-length mirror in the corner. He passed him a hand mirror. “I can explain how the old tattoo will be perfectly camouflaged.”

Once again, Crowley didn’t remove his sunglasses to inspect it. Aziraphale was beginning to wonder if he had sensitivity to light.

“Nah,” said Crowley, lips quirked. “I trust you.”

Warmth filled his chest. He had no idea what he had done to earn that trust, but he was determined to be worthy of it.

“Then let’s get started,” said Aziraphale.

In no time at all, Crowley was straddling the tattoo chair, shirt tucked up out of the way. His trousers rode low enough on his hips that Aziraphale hadn’t needed him to make any adjustments.

As Aziraphale dipped his liner into the black ink cap, he quoted, “‘Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.’”

Crowley huffed out a laugh. “That doesn’t sound like Dante.”

“Milton,” he confirmed. “ _Paradise Lost_. It seemed appropriate.”

“Now, did you know that off the top of your head, or did you look it up beforehand?”

“From your tone, I imagine you already know the answer,” Aziraphale said dryly.

Crowley laughed again, then sighed. “Come on, then. You and me, Satan, let’s go.”

Aziraphale adjusted his glasses with a frown. Satan. _Really_.

The tattoo machine buzzed, and he put needle to skin.

To his surprise, as he pulled his first line, he could feel Crowley’s tension begin to _ease_ under his blue-gloved fingers. That was the opposite reaction he had expected.

He raised the needle, wiped at the excess ink, and asked, “Are you alright?”

“Fuck Satan.” Crowley sounded stunned. “You tattoo like a proper _angel_.”

Aziraphale hummed. “Thank you. But I don’t believe I know what that means.”

Crowley twisted to see Aziraphale over his shoulder. “You ever gotten a tattoo from Hastur?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“’S like knives carving into you. Slicing right down to the bone. This?” He waved a hand back toward Aziraphale. “’S like feathers. So.”

“Angel,” he finished. That was definitely a new one.

And ironic, considering.

He bent down to continue his work. Instead of sharing what was on his mind, he asked, “What’s the story behind this one, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Crowley huffed. “Does there need to be a story besides being young and stupid?”

“No, of course not. But you have one.”

“Eh.” He shifted in the chair a little between lines. “First year of university. First real boyfriend. We were in the same Lit class and read _Inferno_. Back then, I was a pretentious little shit who thought it was cool to quote dead Italian writers. So of course, when we started…” he waved his hand again, telling Aziraphale to fill in the blanks, “I had to quote _this_ line. Turned into an inside joke after a while.”

When he didn’t say more, Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “No alcohol involved, then?”

“Sober as God Herself.”

That pulled a smile out of him. “I believe the phrase is ‘sober as a judge.’”

“Yeah. But ‘m willing to bet they get as sloshed as the rest of us.”

“Only when they’re not sitting cases, surely?” He tried to sound scandalized, but even he could hear the smile in his voice. He didn’t always chat with clients as he worked, but there was something about Crowley that made it effortless.

“I’d say yes, but I’d rather not lie to an angel.”

“I should hope you wouldn’t lie to me anyway,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley took the bait. “Why’s that?”

He raised the tattoo needle and set it buzzing near Crowley’s ear for a moment. “Because I’m the one permanently etching this snake onto your skin.”

His client laughed. It was a laugh that was smooth and rich, like chocolate. “Understood.”

“So,” said Aziraphale as he returned to his lining, “why the Serpent of Eden?”

The muscles under his fingers tensed. As if Crowley wanted to shrug when he said, “I like snakes.”

“Yes, but then you could have gotten _any_ snake,” he reasoned. “Yet you wanted _this_ one.”

“Yeah?”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to shrug as he wiped the cloth over Crowley’s back. “I always find the stories behind a person’s tattoos to be interesting. As if the person were a book, and each tattoo was a new chapter.”

“That’s why you asked about the tramp stamp? To read my sssssstory?” Crowley’s voice sounded heavy, like he was relaxing into a back massage. Was Aziraphale’s tattooing really that soft?

“Partly,” he admitted. “But I also find that the anecdotes behind lower back tattoos tend to be rather humorous. Did your boyfriend go with you? To get the tattoo?”

“Nah. Sssss’prised him.”

He chuckled. “What did he say when he saw it?”

He reached the end of the line and lifted the needle, only then realizing he hadn’t heard Crowley’s answer.

“Crowley?”

No response.

He put the tattoo machine down and rolled his stool around to the front of the chair. With an “apologies, my dear,” Aziraphale lifted away the sunglasses to confirm that his eyes were closed.

“Oh, dear,” he sighed.

Crowley had passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tracy's witch pin up has oodles of nipples. She is correct that it would offend Aziraphale's sensibilities.
> 
> Also her mug is really cool and if anyone ever finds one in real life, please let me know. :D
> 
> P.S. Thanks again to the Pufferfish Yoghurt Starters on Twitter! Sorry for freaking you out with the Oscar joke.


	3. First Session, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's tattoo session continues and takes an unexpected turn.

“…ley, you’re safe,” murmured a soft, comforting voice in the darkness. “No need to worry, Crowley. You’re safe. You’re getting tattooed.”

Tattooed?

His eyes snapped open. Bright light made him flinch and squeeze them shut again.

“Oh! My apologies,” said the voice, no longer soft, but still oddly comforting. “Let me just…”

And the bright light disappeared. He tried opening his eyes again.

Aziraphale was turning back from a lamp that was now aimed at the wall. Aziraphale, the tattoo artist. He must have been the source of the voice. Crowley’s face was pushed into the black padding of the tattoo chair. His gaze swept the room, and he felt things slotting back into place.

Oh.

“I passed out, didn’t I?” he asked, already feeling the burn in the tips of his ears.

He tried to push himself off the back of the chair and into an upright position, and his head swam.

Strong hands squeezed his biceps, keeping him in place until the world stopped spinning. “Yes, I’m rather afraid you did,” said Aziraphale. “So we’re going to move _slowly_ to keep it from happening again.”

Crowley realized that Aziraphale had _squeezed_ his arms because the artist had already been firmly holding onto him, as if to keep him from falling backwards off the chair, and the burn in his ears spread to his cheeks.

With Aziraphale’s guidance, Crowley managed to disentangle himself from the chair and sit on it properly. Cling film covered his lower back, protecting the tattooed skin from infection. He was no longer light-headed, his skin no longer felt clammy. But he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had an unfortunate crease on his cheek from the padded chair. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Aziraphale squeezed his arm again. “Well done. How are you feeling?”

Embarrassed. Dejected. “Fine.”

“Excellent!” He gave his arm another squeeze, then let go. Crowley was already missing the warmth. “Now we need to get some sugar into you, my dear!”

_My dear?_

Was Aziraphale trying to knock him out _again_?

The artist ducked out of the room. Less than a minute later he was back with a small bowl of candy. “Eat up. Tracy is making you a cup of cocoa as well.”

“That’s…not necessary,” Crowley said with a throat full of gravel, but Aziraphale gently shook the bowl until he relented and took one…two…three pieces of candy. Even then, the bowl wasn’t removed from his personal space until Crowley unwrapped a bar and bit it in half.

“I assure you, it _is_ necessary. We don’t want you fainting again.” Aziraphale’s eyes fucking twinkled, but Crowley knew he wasn’t being mocked.

Didn’t stop his blush from sweeping down to his chest. Wasn’t going to impress Aziraphale this way, that’s for sure.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed by,” Aziraphale soothed.

Crowley’s head snapped up. Was he _that_ readable?

“I’ve had clients faint as soon as the needle buzzed. Even if you take every precaution, it’s impossible to know what will happen until you begin.”

“Every precaution?” asked Crowley. His voice still sounded gravelly.

Aziraphale hummed. “Like the breakfast you ate. And staying hydrated.”

Crowley blanked. He said he’d eaten breakfast? Because he certainly hadn’t had anything. And was a shot of espresso hydrating?

The tattoo artist continued explaining the best ways to prevent fainting, but Crowley’s attention wandered to his inked forearms and the waistcoat hugging the swell of his belly.

 _Oh_. He…must have been distracted earlier as well. Aziraphale was beautiful and it was next to impossible to tear his eyes away. Besides, earlier he’d thought the angel was just making polite conversation!

He rubbed at the crease on his cheek —

— and discovered his sunglasses were missing.

Panic rising in his chest, he cast his undeniably un-tinted gaze around the room. Where were the glasses?

Had Aziraphale seen? Of _course_ he’d seen.

Sickness was beginning to join the panic — and then Aziraphale held out the glasses, gently cradled in his hand.

“I removed them when you fainted,” he said apologetically.

Crowley focused on reaching out a _steady_ hand to retrieve the glasses. But based on the way the frame twitched under his fingers, he wasn’t exactly successful.

He shoved them back onto his face. The panic subsided, but he still felt sick. He tried to tell himself it was the candy bar.

“At the risk of sounding unprofessional,” Aziraphale murmured to the hands folded in his lap, “I think your eyes are lovely.”

Crowley froze. That couldn’t be right. Surely he was just being nice. Nobody thought his eyes were lovely. The closest thing to a compliment he had ever gotten was “wicked contacts!” followed by an awkward “oh” when they learned the truth.

“S’ called coloboma,” said Crowley, hating himself but not knowing what else to say. “The iris is broken. I see fine, but. Freaks people out. So.” He gestured to the sunglasses.

Aziraphale hummed. “I find that people — even clever people, or people with the best of intentions — can be foolish.” He offered Crowley a smile that was sweeter than any candy bar. “Is this where your snake theme originated, then?” He indicated the snake tattoo in front of his ear.

Crowley could have said that his classmates had called him a snake, and he’d gotten fed up with their taunts. He could have said that the face tattoo he’d gotten as soon as he turned 18 was his way of embracing the snake persona. He could have said that owning what others hated about you was the surest way to prevent yourself from being hurt by it.

But he was sitting in front of a gorgeous man who had just told him that his eyes were lovely and he was still light-headed from fainting, yes, from the fainting, that was it, and his tongue was twisted in knots and he didn’t think he could articulate the word “snake” let alone a complex thought, so he didn’t say any of that.

He settled for, “Uh. Yeah, I s’pose.”

Aziraphale looked like he was about to say something, but Tracy chose that moment to bustle into the room.

“Sorry for the wait, loves,” she cooed, and handed Crowley a tartan-patterned mug of cocoa. A cluster of mini marshmallows bobbed on the surface.

Aziraphale, in turn, received a white ceramic mug with angel wings instead of a handle. Crowley raised an eyebrow at it and smirked. He thought he saw the hint of a pleased smile on the artist’s face before it disappeared behind a large sip.

“You look a sight better than you did before!” Tracy told Crowley as she gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You were all pale and peaky. Aziraphale might have had a _vampire_ in his chair.”

“Are you disappointed?” he asked with a cheeky grin. It felt forced, but better that than another witness to his vulnerability.

“Oh, stop!” Tracy squealed with delight. “Don’t let Mr. S hear you talking like that! You’ll run him off!” More subdued, she added, “Don’t worry about cleaning up, loves. I’ll take care of it later.”

She gave Aziraphale a squeeze of his arm, too, then slipped out of the room.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Okay, now I have to ask.”

“Mr. Shadwell is getting his thirteenth tattoo from Tracy today,” Aziraphale explained, “and it’s one of her posing provocatively. Theirs is…the strangest courtship I have ever seen.”

“They’re…a couple?” he asked. He could feel the beginnings of hope rearing its head, but he stomped it down. Just because a tattoo artist was dating a client didn’t mean that Aziraphale would be willing to do the same for him.

“You know, I’m too afraid to ask.” Aziraphale graced him with a soft, amused smile, as if they were creating their own inside joke. Crowley’s stomach flopped. “Mr. Shadwell will be in later today. Maybe you’ll have a chance to see what I mean.”

It took Crowley a moment to follow. “We’re still tattooing today?”

“Of course.” He set aside his empty angel mug. “I’ll keep plying you with sugar throughout the session, but there’s no reason we can’t continue. Clients who faint rarely have any further issues.” Then he lowered his gaze. “However, if you no longer feel comfortable, we can push it back to another day. It will be more difficult to align the stencil, of course, but it is doable. We can schedule for later in the day, as well, and you don’t —”

Crowley raised his hand to stop the flow of words. “‘M fine. We can keep going.”

He moved to set aside his own mug, but Aziraphale raised his eyebrow at the half-full contents and cleared his throat meaningfully. Crowley rolled his head, but his smile was sheepish as he drained the rest of the cocoa.

When Aziraphale cleared him to continue, he straddled the tattoo chair again. A slow breath of hesitation, and then he closed his eyes, carefully removed his sunglasses, and set them aside on Aziraphale’s desk. He didn’t fancy twisting his neck for hours trying to keep the glasses from digging into his face uncomfortably.

Placing his chin on top of the headrest, he took a long, shallow breath and kept his eyes squeezed shut. No one could see his freak eyes. _Aziraphale_ couldn’t see his freak eyes. Even if he could from directly behind Crowley, he wouldn’t, because he was focused on the tattoo. And even if he _would_ — Crowley took a deeper, shuddering breath — he thought Crowley’s eyes were lovely.

A gloved hand rested on the small of his back. The cling film must have been removed while he’d been preoccupied, because he could feel the smooth nitrile against his skin. And the heat of Aziraphale’s palm sunk into his muscles like the heat of a warm bath.

“Take a deep breath,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley recognized the soft, comforting voice he’d heard when he was under. “Try to relax.”

Crowley did as he was told, breathing deeply and focusing on the warmth of Aziraphale’s hand. He kept his eyes closed, and the panic began to ebb. Slowly, the tension in his body fell away.

“Good,” Aziraphale murmured, just loud enough for Crowley to hear. “Well done, Crowley. Just keep breathing. I’m going to start tattooing again, but let me know if you start to feel light headed or nauseated. We can take as many breaks as you need.”

Crowley nodded awkwardly against his chin rest. “Sure, angel.”

“Is that a ‘sure, angel, no need to be a worrywart, I’ll insist that I’m fine even as I slip into unconsciousness,’ or a ‘sure, angel, I’ll do as you say and let you know the moment I feel something in the hopes of winning a slice of cake?’”

He grinned, even though Aziraphale couldn’t possibly see it. “I meant the first one, but now that I know there’s cake on the line…”

Part of him whispered hopefully that Aziraphale was talking about a date. He stomped that part down.

Aziraphale had a smile in his voice as he said, “Play your cards right, and it might even be chocolate.”

Crowley had no idea if that was a euphemism or not, but he was more than willing to find out.

Aziraphale returned to his work. It hurt, of course, but it was nowhere near as painful as Hastur’s slash job. As long as Crowley continued to breathe and embrace the pain, he could shove the whole sensation into the background.

What he focused on instead was Aziraphale’s motions as he swept the needle across Crowley’s back, as he wiped a cloth over his work, as he shifted the wheelie stool into a better position. But most of all, he focused on Aziraphale’s soothing voice as he continued their conversation where they had left off.

Aziraphale’s last cover up had also been a tattoo of Hastur’s, a mistake from a “drunken night of revelry.” From there, he moved on to amusing anecdotes of clients and misadventures during his apprenticeship. Crowley had his own customer horror stories to share from his teenage job at a flower shop. The more they talked, the more Crowley was able to relax.

He never once opened his eyes.

When Aziraphale said “Well done, that’s enough for today” three hours later, Crowley almost groaned with regret. Being done meant he had to leave. He didn’t think Aziraphale would appreciate him hanging around the shop for the rest of the day.

“Let me wrap this up, and then I’ll make you some more cocoa, my dear.”

Crowley blinked for the first time in hours. Aziraphale had been dropping the endearment since he’d passed out, and each utterance made his heart flutter. And now he was being invited to stay for cocoa?

“Really?” he asked, fighting to keep the desperate hope out of his voice. He had no idea if he succeeded.

Aziraphale chuckled as he wiped down Crowley’s back. “Yes, really. Shop policy. You need to stay for 15 minutes after the tattoo so we can keep an eye on you. Rather like when you donate blood.”

“Right.”

After Aziraphale finished clean up, Crowley blindly got to his feet (“slowly!”) and felt his sunglasses being pressed into his left hand. Forget heart fluttering — the damn organ squeezed with emotion at the gesture. He slipped the glasses back on and blinked a few times to find Aziraphale standing before him, beaming.

Right. Breathing. That’s a thing.

Soon enough his tattoo was wrapped in cotton gauze and his henley was back in place, providing a thin layer of warmth in the cold shop. Then Aziraphale was leading the way to the back, where a small kitchenette waited to serve them another round of cocoa.

“Take a seat,” said Aziraphale, waving to the three chairs surrounding a circular table. “If you faint standing you’ll have a _long_ way to fall.”

Crowley wanted to disagree, wanted to offer to take care of the cocoa — but then he imagined Aziraphale hauling his unconscious body across the floor because he refused to follow directions. Heaving a sigh, he sprawled across one of the chairs, and let his eyes follow Aziraphale as he bustled around the kitchenette.

Ngk. Bad plan.

All the blood was rushing from his head again, but for a completely different reason. His tight trousers grew tighter as he swelled painfully against them.

He swallowed a groan. He was _not_ doing this to the angel. If he had to sit here for a whole hour chugging overly sweet cocoa, he was not going to let Aziraphale even suspect that he’d gotten hard in his shop’s kitchen.

Aziraphale placed another tartan mug of cocoa and marshmallows in front of him, as well as a generous slice of chocolate cake. “Here you are, my dear.” He patted Crowley on the shoulder — sending an electric shock straight to his groin — and fetched another mug of cocoa before taking a seat of his own.

Crowley regarded the cake in front of him, hope sinking in him like a lead balloon.

“Eat up!” Aziraphale urged him. “You earned every bite.”

…so. Not a date, then.

The lead balloon plunged through the bottom of his stomach.

It didn’t leave him with much of an appetite — of either variety, he realized as another part of himself sank. “Nyeh. Is this _your_ cake, angel?”

The faint blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks was all the answer he needed.

“I can’t take your dessert from you,” Crowley protested. When the artist opened his mouth with his own protest, he added, “And don’t say I earned it. I just sat there, you’re the one who did all the work!”

Gaze fixed on the table, Aziraphale tugged at the hem of his waistcoat. The flex of his right forearm made the open book tattoos ripple. “I _did_ promise.”

“Wasn’t a promise. I thought you were —” flirting — “joking.”

But Aziraphale’s crestfallen expression pressed on his chest like stones. You’d think Crowley had insulted his beloved puppy.

“We…could share it?” he tried.

As Aziraphale’s head came up, his smile so radiant it spilled over to his blue-grey eyes, Crowley decided that the entire ordeal of the morning had been worth it. He would faint a thousand times to see that smile again and again.

“Oh!” the artist exclaimed. “Yes. That would be the perfect compromise.” He practically bounced out of his seat to fetch another fork.

Even if this turned out to be the most delicious cake in existence, Crowley swore to himself that he would eat no more than twenty percent.

“Dig in, angel,” he told the artist when he returned.

“After you,” he insisted with a half-bow and a wave toward the cake with his free hand.

Crowley rolled his head at this adorably ridiculous behavior, then pointedly speared a small tuft of fluffy chocolate sponge. As expected, it tasted like a standard rich chocolate cake.

And then Aziraphale took his first bite. His eyes fluttered closed and he made a satisfied sound that did not belong at a kitchen table. When the fork finally slid out of his mouth, he fairly shone with pure joy.

Ok. Crowley was definitely eating no more than ten percent now. Five if he could get away with it.

Crowley’s compulsory fifteen minutes turned into an hour and a half of chatting and laughing over cake and cocoa. Even though he left almost the entirety of the cake slice to Aziraphale, he felt like his teeth were going to rot out from all of the sugar. Which was unfortunate because he was smiling more than he had in months. He’d never met anyone like Aziraphale, and he never wanted to leave.

But of course, that’s not how the world worked. Aziraphale had an afternoon appointment, and the only bright side to getting kicked out of the shop was the artist’s profuse apologies.

Crowley knew what he wanted to ask, but he swallowed it down as Aziraphale took his credit card. He swallowed it down as he signed the receipt, and he swallowed it down as Aziraphale slipped on his glasses and flipped through the appointment book to set up the next session in three weeks.

It wasn’t appropriate to ask out your tattoo artist. He needed to wait until his tattoo was finished.

But bless it, he was going to — was _having_ — trouble waiting.

He choked out a “ta” without letting any other words escape and turned to leave.

“Ah, Crowley?”

Fuck. “Yeah, angel?”

Aziraphale’s fingers tugged on the hem of his waistcoat again. It must have been a common gesture, because the velvet there had worn away. “I — thank you. For trusting me, that is. With.” He touched his own glasses, and his cheeks bloomed with red.

“Oh!” Crowley realized. He tried to play at nonchalance but his heart started hammering away. “It was — nothing. Didn’t want to break my glasses during the tattoo, did I?”

“Still.” Aziraphale offered him a comforting smile that did nothing to calm his heart. “I know it couldn’t have been easy. Especially since I outed you, as it were.”

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it.

Crowley licked suddenly dry lips and said it anyway. “Eh. You made it easier.”

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened, and Crowley had to look away before he went blind. How did he end up here, trying not to spill his guts to this man? Oh yeah, a random search on Insta for snake tattoos.

“That’s very kind,” said Aziraphale, and he sounded almost as strangled as Crowley felt. “And…Crowley?”

He turned back to grey eyes wavering with an unnamed emotion.

“No part of you is broken.”

He fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was very difficult trying to figure out what happens after you pass out during a tattoo. Hope Aziraphale managed it okay...
> 
> As always, thanks to the Pufferfish Yoghurt Starters! <3


	4. Eric's Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric gets a tattoo this time! And of course, Crowley has to tag along as moral support.

Two weeks later, Crowley found himself back in Heaven’s Tartan Ink. This time it was at Eric’s request, to be _his_ moral support as he got his own tattoo.

“And you’re getting a bunny,” he said dryly, gaze flickering to every corner of the shop at once in search of a certain, waistcoated, cloudy-haired artist.

“It’s not a regular bunny,” Eric ground out for the sixth time, “It’s the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog.”

“So…a bunny.”

“It’s Monty Python!”

“Does one of them dress up like the bunny?”

Eric growled in frustration.

“Because if they did, that’d explain why people laugh at them.”

Eric launched into a tirade defending the classic comedy troupe, but Crowley had trouble paying attention to the same rant he’d heard every time he challenged Eric’s taste. It didn’t help that this time he had a bundle of live wires for nerves.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to Aziraphale since his first session two weeks ago. Since “I think your eyes are lovely.” Since “No part of you is broken.”

What was he supposed to say to that?

When Eric had asked him to tag along, Crowley had seriously considered refusing. He didn’t want to haul his drama and anxieties into the room.

But even with his doubts, he’d known it wasn’t really a choice. He could never pass up a chance to see the angel.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of cream and tartan emerging from the hallway as Aziraphale and the tattoo artist from their first visit — Liam? — entered the front of the shop, deep in discussion.

Aziraphale broke off to greet them with a cheery smile that lit up his entire face. “Eric! Crowley! Good morning.”

“All right, angel?” Crowley asked without thinking. Oh well, too late to take it back.

Eric — faltering in an enthusiastic wave — shot him a confused, suspicious glance. Crowley ignored him.

“Perfectly all right, thank you,” said Aziraphale, with a twinkle in his blue eyes just for him.

Well. Maybe not _just_ for him, but where was the harm in imagining?

“If you’re ready,” he continued, addressing Eric, “we can go on back.” As he’d done for Crowley last time, he gave a little half-bow and swept his arm toward the hallway.

Eric practically leapt to obey, and Crowley sauntered after him. If he threw in a wider sway to his hips and a cheeky grin as he passed the tattoo artist, who could blame him?

Once again, Eric bounced into the tattoo chair and Aziraphale wheeled in Tracy’s stool for Crowley. He handed a sheet of paper to Eric, who grinned and punched the air in triumph.

“Yeah, this is wicked cool, man.” His dark eyes devoured the design before he finally passed it to Crowley.

It was cool, he’d give him that. A rabbit, mouth dark with blood, lunged above a skull and other bones. He didn’t get it, but he assumed those who’d seen the movie would.

He gave a little smirk as he handed it back to Aziraphale. “Scary,” he said appreciatively.

To his surprise, Aziraphale’s proud smile…froze. Like he was posing for a portrait and the photographer was taking too long. He cleared his throat, muttered something about making the stencil, and left.

The artist was barely out the door before Eric turned to Crowley with a toothy grin. “So.”

This would be good. Crowley raised an eyebrow over his sunglasses in sardonic question.

“ _Angel_ , huh?”

Insides squirming, he bit back a “noticed that, did you?” Of course he had. Crowley hadn’t exactly been subtle. Instead, he shrugged. “You’ll see.”

“Should I leave the two of you alone?” asked Eric, waggling his own eyebrows. “Grab some coffee for an hour?”

“Only if you’re having second thoughts about permanently inking a Python skit on your body.”

“Green is not a good color on you.”

Crowley spread his arms to indicate his black ensemble with red accents. “Obviously.”

“Jealousy, mate. _Obviously_ ,” mocked Eric.

He didn’t bother denying it. Wouldn’t even convince the person who believed their shoelaces were untied.

Eric gasped with delight. “You know what you need?”

“Don’t say —”

“A wingman!” they said together with decidedly different levels of excitement.

“Absolutely not,” continued Crowley.

“Why not?”

“You’re a terrible wingman.”

“I’m a _great_ wingman.”

“You have driven away _every single one_ of my potential pulls that you’ve come into contact with.”

“Come off it.”

He started ticking off on his fingers. “Sam. Thought you were my boyfriend and I was cheating on you.”

“Not true.”

“Julian. Who you managed to convince to go back to _his_ boyfriend.”

“He didn’t need to get laid, he needed a shoulder to cry on. You were better off not getting involved.”

“Andrew. Neil. Colin.”

“Who?”

“The guy at the garden centre. Was going to buy me a snake plant?”

“He worked there!”

“James. Victoria.”

“That one’s not my fault! You thought you were only attracted to guys!”

“Yes, and then you _told_ her I was only attracted to guys.” He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “Look. No wingman-ing, okay? Just sit there and get your tattoo.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “I don’t think that sparkling attitude of yours is going to win you any favors with your _angel_ ,” he muttered. But he shut up after that, choosing instead to raid the candy bowl Aziraphale had left out.

The artist returned, promised stencil in hand. “Here we are! Oh, good, you found the candy.” With barely a glance at Crowley, he edged past him to bustle around his workstation.

Crowley stuffed his hands as far as they could go into his tight pockets. That brush off hadn’t hurt. Nope. S’all good.

“ _You’ve_ had your breakfast, yes?” Aziraphale asked Eric.

“Yep!”

“What’d you have?”

“Uh. A full English? Does it matter?” Slightly panicked, he added, “Was that not enough?”

“No, you’re fine.” And Aziraphale broke out into a smile for Eric. “I merely wished to ensure that you had eaten today.” Teasing lined his voice, and Crowley half-expected him to turn and wink.

But he never did. Instead he continued to pelt Eric with questions, which Crowley probably should have recognized as questions he’d been asked last time. And of _course_ Aziraphale was ignoring Crowley, it was _Eric_ who was his client today. Eric _should_ get all the attention.

And Crowley could get over himself.

Though he did note with (too much) interest that Aziraphale didn’t stumble over his words when he asked Eric to remove his shirt.

In no time at all, the stencil was in place and Eric was leaning back in the chair. And it wasn’t until Aziraphale put his hand on Eric’s chest and began to tattoo that Crowley realized he had overlooked one very obvious fact.

Aziraphale’s hand was on. Eric’s. _Chest_.

Something sharp and ugly rose up inside him to _hisssssss_ at his friend’s audacity. How dare he choose _that_ placement with _his_ angel.

Eric only had a handful of small tattoos, there was no reason he couldn’t get this on his arm or his leg. But no, he had to go for the chest. And then he asked Crowley to tag along so he could flaunt this intimacy in front of him, force Crowley to watch every single caress of Aziraphale’s hand and needle.

He should have known better than to taunt Crowley. The sharp and ugly thing bared its fangs, urging Crowley to punish Eric for his misdeeds.

And then Eric shot him an open grin, bursting with excitement that he was finally getting his stupid killer rabbit tattoo.

The sharp and ugly thing hesitated, and Crowley was able to get a fucking grip.

Getting tattooed on the chest wasn’t _intimate._

Eric wasn’t _flaunting_ anything.

And Aziraphale wasn’t _his_.

Okay, that one made his chest squeeze painfully, drawing tighter the longer he thought about it. This wasn’t just a crush, this was…

A mess.

He shot Eric a belated, forced smile of his own and sank onto the spare wheelie stool. It was thoughtful of Aziraphale to have it ready for him — it didn’t _mean_ anything, you stupid meat pouch — but it definitely wasn’t the ideal furniture for sprawling. Maybe he could grab a proper chair from the kitchenette. Might mean sitting half out in the hallway, though, and that wouldn’t do. Fire hazard and all.

Feeling more in control, Crowley finally allowed himself to tune back into the tableau before him. As Aziraphale settled into a steady rhythm, he and Eric were exchanging the usual pleasantries about the weather and the weekend. Also known as the _normal_ topics of conversation to have with a stranger.

He realized something else. Even though he’d been tattooed by Aziraphale for three hours the other day, Crowley had never actually _seen_ him work. Facing away from the artist during the tattoo didn’t allow for it.

Now, though, he was able to watch Aziraphale freely, and with no risk of getting caught out.

Where Crowley always felt like a tall wire of anxiety with more angles than sense, Aziraphale’s movements were smooth and assured. He never hesitated or wavered, and his confidence was…soothing. Under his hands, the black and grey tattoo steadily took shape.

It was mesmerizing.

“How are you holding up, Eric?” Aziraphale asked after a while, glancing over his spectacles. “All right?”

“It’s just a flesh wound!” Eric replied in a weird voice. He looked between Crowley and Aziraphale expectantly with a ready grin.

Had…he just told a joke?

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “What.”

Aziraphale was wiping away the excess ink from his latest pass. “It’s not inaccurate. Tattoos are technically flesh wounds.”

Eric groaned, throwing his head back against the chair. “Not you, too. Come on, this movie’s a classic!”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale wisely. “It was a quotation.”

Eric made an unintelligible noise, but Crowley caught that goddamned twinkle in the artist’s eye. “You’re having him on, yeah?”

His lips tugged up in a smug smile that set Crowley’s heart thundering. It was fucking delightful.

“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted before turning back to his work. “I do have a _passing_ familiarity with the film. Enough to recognize the more famous lines, at any rate.”

“Now is that so much to ask?” Eric demanded of Crowley. “You can hate them, but you could at least recognize the references!”

“Nah,” said Crowley automatically. “Not worth it.”

“He’s _never seen_ Holy Grail,” Eric told Aziraphale, as if this was the greatest betrayal known to mankind.

The tattoo machine stopped buzzing, and Aziraphale looked up. A faint “oh” was all he said, yet it carried all the surprise and revelation that Eric needed to justify that he had an ally.

“You’ve seen it, right?” pressed Eric.

Aziraphale turned sheepish. “Parts of it. I had a boyfriend once who insisted the film would change my life and sat me down on the couch to ‘bask in its comedic glory.’ But I confess I was distracted by something much more exciting.”

Crowley’s ears and heart perked up at ‘boyfriend.’ He hadn’t expected confirmation of his gaydar ping.

But Eric was laughing. “Netflix-DVD and chill, huh?”

Aziraphale blinked in confusion, then chuckled. “Ah, no, nothing that requires a euphemism. I was distracted because I’d been reading _Colour of Magic_. Pratchett’s wit aligns with my tastes far more than Monty Python’s does.”

“The pair of you, I swear.” He shook his head in mock anguish.

But Crowley wasn’t paying attention, because for the first time in an hour, Aziraphale had entirely lit up with his smile. When their eyes met, he felt something shift. Like he and Aziraphale were on their own side, them against the rest of the world. Like they really were the pair that Eric had named them. 

And then Aziraphale was working again, and the…something shifted back into its usual place.

Whatever it had been, Crowley wanted to feel it again.

“The two of you should give Monty Python another shot,” Eric was saying. “Maybe we could have a watch party this week! Holy Grail and Life of Brian!”

Crowley had no doubt that on the day of, Eric would conveniently have to work (when he had no set hours at his job) or bury his grandmother (who had died five years ago) or wash his hare (a dumb joke he’d maintained since getting his first rabbit in secondary school). The ruse was painfully transparent.

This is what he meant when he said Eric was a terrible wingman.

Before Crowley could reject the awful idea, Aziraphale said, “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I must decline.”

“Busy on weeknights?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m in the shop most evenings.”

“We can wait til you’re free!” Eric said quickly. “You have a flexible schedule, right, Crowley?”

“Eric,” he said in a warning tone.

“I-I-I’m afraid it’s quite impossible,” said Aziraphale. He pushed away slightly from the tattoo chair. A signal too subtle for Eric to notice.

“I can provide the alcohol! Crowley likes wine, but I don’t know enough about it to get anything good, do you like — mmph!”

Crowley had clamped a hand over his mouth. “Eric. Stop. It’s not appropriate, all right? He’s not allowed to — to _fraternize_ with clients.”

It felt like he was dribbling acid with the words as they tumbled out of his mouth.

Over black-painted nails, Eric’s eyes widened. Maybe he finally understood how his wingman attempts fucked everything up.

He pulled away, and Eric immediately babbled an apology to Aziraphale. The artist’s cheeks were flushed, but he insisted there was nothing to forgive.

And they got on with the tattooing. The conversation was stilted at first as they fought past the awkwardness, but eventually they resumed a normal rhythm. Eric eventually pulled out headphones with another apology and began listening to his own music so he could zone out to deal with the pain of the tattooing.

Which made Crowley realize that the Queen album playing today was markedly different from the classical when he was last in here, and Aziraphale explained their rotating system. And if he referred to it as “bebop,” Crowley didn’t bother correcting him.

The conversation meandered like that for another hour. But Crowley never found the courage to ask what he really wanted to, which was the stories behind Aziraphale’s tattoos. He still remembered what Aziraphale had said last time. _“I always find the stories behind a person’s tattoos to be interesting. As if the person were a book, and each tattoo was a new chapter.”_

If Aziraphale thought that way, how personal must his own stories be?

Finally, Eric returned from his musical haven to ask for a quick break. Aziraphale directed him to the candy bowl again for a sugar boost, and then the toilet at the back of the shop.

Then they were alone for the first time in two weeks.

Aziraphale got to his feet and stretched. Crowley’s eyes automatically dropped to the hem of his waistcoat as it rose over the swell of his belly. There wasn’t a drop of ink on the man’s cream and white clothes. Crowley licked his lips.

“Can I get you anything?” Aziraphale asked. “You must be thirsty.”

Fuck. Yes, but that’s not what Aziraphale meant and he knew it.

“Sorry about earlier,” he blurted for lack of anything sensible to say. “He’s always looking to convert new Python fans and saw an opportunity. Told you he was excitable.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Completely understandable. I’ve been known to get carried away myself a time or two.”

And he winked.

Ffffffffffffuck.

What happened to inappropriate?!

“Uh. How…how did Mr Shadwell’s pin up turn out?” he asked, blindly grasping for a safe topic.

“Oh, splendidly. He absolutely loved it. Refused to put his shirt back on for an hour, Tracy told me.”

“…is that good or bad?” asked Crowley despite himself.

“I refuse to pass judgment,” he said primly.

He laughed. “Really bad, then.”

Aziraphale’s blue-grey eyes gained a glint of mischief, and Crowley hoped he wasn’t about to bloody _wink_ again.

But the moment passed, and his expression — that mercurial, heart-on-his-sleeve expression — turned to one of concern. “How is your tattoo faring?”

“Uh. Fine. Stopped itching. That lotion you recommended worked miracles.”

Aziraphale raised a hand as if to mime lifting the hem of Crowley’s shirt. “May I?”

Thank every occult being that his tattoo had finished peeling a few days ago. “S’okay.” He turned his back to Aziraphale and hauled his leather jacket out of the way. Did he leave the shirt down on purpose so Aziraphale had an excuse to touch him?

Best not to read into it.

Fabric slid softly against his back as Aziraphale lifted the shirt. All of Crowley’s focus narrowed down to the slight graze of a thumb on his skin. Electric shocks flew up his spine, and he shuddered.

Aziraphale hummed behind him. “Lovely,” he murmured.

Crowley thought he would drop the shirt now and step away, but then two warm fingers brushed his back. His breath hitched, but he managed not to shudder again under Aziraphale’s touch.

The fingers stroked a spot that Crowley knew was the snake’s head, as if the artist were caressing the soon-to-be-inked scales. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could lift those fingers to run through his hair instead. He could imagine the sensation all too clearly, and the absence of it made his scalp ache with regret.

All too soon, Aziraphale pulled away, tugging Crowley’s shirt back into place. He circled back to offer him a reassuring smile that warmed him to his core. “Yes. This is healing nicely, Crowley. We should be all set to continue next week.”

“Yep,” Crowley said, too raspy to pop the “p” like he’d intended. “Great.”

He hesitated. “You can still make next week, right?”

“Course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

He was rewarded with another radiant smile. Crowley could live off those smiles like his plants lived off the sun. He could bask in this one like a snake basks on a rock. Content. Warm. Purring.

Did snakes purr?

A knock on the doorframe pulled him back in time to see a slim figure enter the tiny room. Like Crowley, he was dressed all in black. But instead of the aging rock star look, he wore a blade of a suit that felt out of place in the shop. His dark eyes were locked on Aziraphale like a starving man’s eyes on his first morsel.

Then Aziraphale beamed at the new arrival, and the ugly and sharp thing inside Crowley hissed in warning.

Back away from my angel, it demanded as it rose to its full height.

But nobody else heard it, because Aziraphale was still beaming, and the man was leaning over to kiss the artist’s cheek.

“Did you miss me, milkshake?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale’s dislike of Monty Python is 100% because of Staged 2. Maybe if a certain person had been nicer to David and Michael we wouldn't _be_ in this situation.
> 
> P.S. Thank you to the Pufferfish Yoghurt Starters!


	5. Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finishes Eric's tattoo while dealing with some overactive male egos.

“Did you miss me, milkshake?”

Aziraphale’s skin still tingled where Raven’s trim beard had brushed his cheek. “How was America, dear boy?”

Raven’s smile showed all of his teeth. “Famished.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale realized. “Where are my manners? Raven, this is one of my clients, Anthony Crowley. Crowley, this is Dr. Raven Sable.”

Raven offered his hand, but Crowley’s hands were stuffed back in his pockets. He gave a small nod instead, and his curled mouth slid into his own toothy smile. There was something…off about the whole exchange, but Aziraphale couldn’t identify what it was.

He channeled the uncomfortable energy into straightening his bow tie. “If you’re here to harass Carmine, please wait until Lesley has finished his work. You know she can’t sit still when she’s riled up.”

“Oh, is Carmine here?” asked Raven, twisting to look down the hallway as if he’d be able to see into the next room. “I’ll have to pop by. But no, milkshake, I came for you.”

Aziraphale heard a soft scoff behind him, but when he glanced back, Crowley was examining the spines of the books stuffed on his shelf. Giving him and his guest some privacy, he supposed.

He tugged at his waistcoat this time, the familiar movement soothing in the face of his nerves. Why did he feel so on edge?

“How kind,” he allowed. “But I am with a client at the moment.” He waved to his tray, clearly set up for tattooing.

Raven’s gaze slowly flowed over Crowley from his upswept red hair to the heels of his snakeskin boots. The movement made something inside of Aziraphale pinch uncomfortably.

“Oh, Anthony doesn’t mind, do you, Anthony?”

“Ah, no, that’s not —”

“Actually, I _do_ mind,” said Crowley, book viewing charade abandoned. “And it’s Crowley.”

“Apologies,” said Raven, not looking the least bit contrite. “I wouldn’t want to come between the two of you. Well.” He cocked his head. “Not here, anyway.”

Crowley made an unintelligible choking sound, and Aziraphale had a sudden vision of his beloved waiting room library being torn apart as the two of them traded punches.

Oh dear.

Thank God and the entire Host of angels, Eric returned at that moment. He hovered uncertainly in the doorway because there was no space for him in the room. “Um. Aziraphale?”

“One moment, Eric, we were just finishing up.” He forced a pleasant smile for Raven. “It’s lovely to see you again, dear boy, but I really must get back to work.”

Annoyance flashed across Raven’s face before he settled for genial. “Of course. I’ll stop by again later, milkshake.” He bent down for another kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek before strolling out of the room with a lazy wave. “Later, Anthony.”

Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat again as Eric finally re-entered. “My apologies for the interruption. Raven is…an old friend, and he has been abroad for the last few months.” There were no doors to these rooms, so he left it at that. “Are you ready to continue, Eric?”

“Uh. Yeah. Course.”

As he made his way to the chair, Eric kept casting wary glances at Crowley. Aziraphale couldn’t decipher Crowley’s expression since he still wore his sunglasses — Aziraphale’s chest squeezed at the loss of those eyes — but at best guess he’d say it was strained.

They were clearly uncomfortable. He twisted his hands together as Eric settled back into the chair. He couldn’t leave it like this.

He already felt bad enough about his earlier misunderstanding. When he’d been putting together the design for Eric, his mind had kept drifting to what Crowley would think. No matter how many times he took it to task, it was more concerned about Crowley’s reception than the actual client’s. He’d only met the man twice, but he already held his opinions in high esteem.

So when he had handed the design to Eric, he’d barely registered his client’s reaction. He’d been too sick with anticipation.

Then Crowley had seen the design Aziraphale had pored over for hours and — shrugged. Had lobbed a tepid “scary” at his chest like it was the Holy Hand Grenade.

All Aziraphale could process was that he hadn’t liked it. All of that drawing, all of those hours, and for naught. Crowley could barely be bothered to glance at it.

His chest had tightened, forcing his heart into his throat, and he’d had to flee the room before he could lose his composure.

Pathetic.

While he’d put the stencil together, he’d given himself a stern lecture. It didn’t matter what Crowley thought. Eric loved it, and that was all that mattered.

He hadn’t fully convinced himself, but at least he’d been able to compose himself so that he could pull a line without his hand trembling.

It wasn’t until an hour later, when Eric had told him that Crowley had never seen Holy Grail that he realized his mistake. Crowley might not have spared a passing glance for a reference he hadn’t recognized, but he _had_ spent the last hour watching Aziraphale tattoo with rapt attention. Maybe he didn’t need to love every design — his soft “ _it’s perfect_ ” echoed through Aziraphale’s bones again. Maybe he showed his approval and support in other ways…

Maybe he…maybe…

The thought slipped out of his grasp with a frustrating tumble. His tangled fingers jerked as if to follow after. Obviously a futile gesture.

Aziraphale sat heavily on his wheelie stool, hands still twisted together. “I really do apologize,” he tried again.

“It’s…fine,” said Eric, his hesitation palpable as he once again checked in with Crowley.

He had no idea what he’d done wrong. He only knew that this atmosphere was oppressive, in sharp contrast to the laughter he could hear from next door where Raven must have found Carmine and Lesley.

As the familiar chords of “Somebody to Love” began, Aziraphale put on a new pair of nitrile gloves. He removed the cling film from Eric’s chest and resumed tattooing.

Below the buzz of the needle, Crowley finally spoke. “He calls you ‘milkshake.’”

Aziraphale blushed inexplicably. Yes, that must seem like a strange endearment. He checked the doorway to ensure it was empty before replying in his own low voice. “He says it’s his favorite dessert.”

Crowley huffed, but didn’t say any more.

He caught another weighted glance between his clients, and something slotted into place.

“It’s not an insult,” he told them as he worked. “Veiled or otherwise. I met him, oh, eleven years ago, now? He was a friend of my ex-boyfriend, who he calls ‘pickle,’ by the way. Strange food nicknames seem to be his modus operandi.” He paused so he could turn to Crowley. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

Crowley shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. It would have been more effective if Aziraphale hadn’t also been able to feel the sour energy emanating from him. “Doesn’t matter if I do. He’s…I hardly have a right to police your relationships, Aziraphale.”

No, he didn’t. But the concern was…endearing, oddly enough.

“Well,” he said, spinning back to dip his needle in an ink cap. “Not everyone can call me ‘angel.’”

On the edge of his vision, he saw Crowley duck his head, but it wasn’t fast enough. Because Aziraphale still caught the soft smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

Eric cleared his throat, then gestured to it. “Did you do that sick tattoo on his neck?”

Aziraphale, still thinking on the appeal of secret smiles, didn’t follow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know, the scales?” He gestured again. “On your friend?”

The image of Raven’s ornate scales flickered into his mind’s eye. He’d once asked why Raven had chosen to make the scales unbalanced — he found that question usually yielded some compelling answers, like the defense lawyer who warned that the criminal justice system was beyond broken — but his friend had merely shrugged and insisted it just felt right that way.

“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” he asked as he textured out a rabbit paw. “Lesley did a wonderful job. Raven and Carmine go to him for all their tattoos.” So did their other friends, Chalky and Aziraphale’s ex-boyfriend Brian.

That was how he’d met Brian in the first place, when Lesley had given him a chest piece of a grim reaper taking souls.

“Do you have anyone that comes to _you_ for all their tattoos?” asked Eric.

From his tone, Aziraphale could tell it wasn’t meant to be cruel. “I don’t, but I don’t need them to. I do not expect them to stay out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. That is…” He fumbled for the right words that wouldn’t also run off clients. “I believe that when someone chooses to get a tattoo, they are getting the tattoo they need at that moment. Whether it’s an image that is deeply personal or just a bit of flash from a street shop, that is the tattoo they need in the moment. In the same vein, the artist who does the tattoo is also the artist that the person needs in that moment. And I do not flatter myself that the artist must always be me.”

He finally glanced up to see that Eric’s eyes had glazed over. Ah. That tended to happen when he philosophized.

“So you’re saying everything is meant?” asked Crowley from behind him. Clearly _his_ lovely eyes hadn’t glazed over.

Tamping down his giddiness, Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “I suppose I am.”

“Why?” He could just hear Crowley’s shrug as his shoulders slid against the wall he was leaning on. “If I get a tiny skull flash, why does it matter which artist gave it to me? They all tattoo it the same. And it’s still just a tiny skull.”

“Maybe you get the artist who uses more black to make the color of the bone pop. And maybe you’ll meet someone a week, a month, a year later who sees that tiny skull and becomes fascinated. They take up drawing, and move on to painting or digital art or, yes, even tattooing itself. They become an artist in their own right, and gift the world with their own works. All because you stopped in a street shop and thought ‘I think I fancy this little skull today.’”

His smile for Crowley was met with an answering grin that warmed him straight to his core, driving the chill of the shop away.

“Is that what happened to you, then?” asked Crowley. “Inspired by a little skull?”

He sniffed in faux indignation. “It was a _bow tie_ , if you must know.” And he pretended to straighten his pointedly. But he couldn’t hold the haughty air for long and a giggle escaped.

Crowley’s lips curled into a smirk. “Inspiring lifelong passions for tattooing _and_ tartan, I see. Must have been some tattoo.”

Heaven help him, he giggled _again_. What was wrong with him? “Not the tartan, I’m afraid. It’s merely stylish. But the tattoo was a lovely realistic piece. It truly looked like someone had left their black bow tie on the person’s skin. That if you had run your fingers over it, you would feel the smooth satin. It was…remarkable. I wanted to learn how to make something like that. So I…I did,” he finished rather lamely.

But Crowley didn’t seem to mind. If anything he looked…stunned? His fingers fluttered at the arm of his sunglasses like he might remove them — Aziraphale’s breath hitched at the possibility that he might once again… — but then the fingers lowered empty-handed and the moment passed.

“Right,” said Crowley. “Fess up. How many bow tie tattoos do you have, then?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh. None. I suppose I couldn’t decide whether to get the bow tie done properly around my throat or…somewhere else, which wouldn’t make any sense at all. And if I _did_ get a bow tie around my throat, what happens when I wear a real bow tie?” He shook his head. “Better to avoid the mess altogether.”

He heard a smothered laugh from Crowley’s direction. It shouldn’t feel like a victory to make another person laugh, but it did. How odd.

Eric had retreated into his headphones again so Aziraphale and Crowley were on their own as far as conversation went, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed talking with Crowley. It was easy, entertaining, and endlessly intriguing.

At one point, Raven got his attention from the doorway again. “I’m just popping out to get sandwiches. Do you want anything, milkshake?”

Aziraphale thought it a bit rude to ignore the two other men in the room, but he couldn’t exactly have that argument now. He opened his mouth to say that he’d brought his lunch today, thank you very much, when Crowley spoke.

“I’ve already brought lunch for the three of us. Ta.”

Raven’s smile turned cold enough to host another frost fair on the Thames. “If you’re sure, Aziraphale?”

He had to fight not to roll his eyes. Honestly, when had something as simple as lunch turned into a pissing contest? Cheerily, he called, “We’re all set, thank you, dear boy.”

Once Raven left and Aziraphale was sure he was out of earshot, he raised an eyebrow at Crowley. “ _I’m_ all set as well, my dear.”

Crowley had the good grace to look chagrined. “Sorry. I _did_ bring lunch for everyone, I just forgot to tell you.” He opened a black leather satchel and began pulling out sandwiches, crisps, and…

“Cake?” Aziraphale had already raised his eyebrow, so he settled for pursing his lips. Which also kept him from smiling too soon and ruining the charade of disapproval.

“Oh. I just. I thought. Well.”

As Crowley scrambled for more words, Aziraphale decided to take pity on him. After all… “It’s a lovely gesture. Thank you, Crowley. Just…please mention it sooner next time so we can avoid any unpleasantness.” He nodded after Raven to make his point clear.

“Yeah,” agreed a relieved Crowley. “Sure.”

“Excellent. Let me finish up this section and we can stop for lunch.”

The sandwiches proved to be delicious, as did the red velvet cake. Aziraphale noticed that his slice was markedly larger than either of his client’s. He probably should have brought it up to ask for a more equitable slice. But…surely that would hurt Crowley’s feelings. He wouldn’t want that.

He savored every bite.

The rest of the afternoon flew by. By the time he declared Eric’s tattoo finished, he was riding an adrenaline high. Which only received a boost when Eric looked in the mirror and pumped his fist.

“This is so awesome! Thanks, Aziraphale!”

“My pleasure, entirely,” he said automatically, trying to avoid watching Crowley for his reaction to the completed tattoo. “This was my first tattoo for Monty Python and the Holy Grail, would you believe. Though I have done a John Cleese portrait or two.”

Eric’s jaw dropped. “I know what I want for my next tattoo!”

Crowley dropped Eric’s shirt on his head. “Try to enjoy this one for a few more minutes, eh?”

“Actually,” said Aziraphale, “do you mind if I take a picture for my portfolio?”

Eric agreed, as his clients always did. He used the digital camera Lesley had bought him. It didn’t have all the features Lesley and Tracy’s cameras did, but he preferred it that way. A basic camera did him just fine.

He took the picture, wrapped the tattoo, gave Eric his care instructions…and Crowley had yet to comment on the tattoo.

He led them back to the front of the shop so Eric could pay while Crowley spent more time looking at the waiting area books than he had the tattoo. That adrenaline high he’d been riding earlier was quickly disappearing.

While they settled in the waiting area, Aziraphale made three mugs of cocoa and lectured himself again about how Eric’s opinion on this tattoo was the one that counted, _not Crowley’s_.

That said, he didn’t try to keep Crowley past the fifteen minute mark this time. Not _try_ , that was the wrong phrasing. He just…kept a closer eye on his pocket watch. When the fifteen minutes were gone, so was the cocoa, and it was time for his clients to leave.

It wasn’t until Eric disappeared into the back for a last stop at the toilet that Crowley drew up close to where Aziraphale stood.

“You were right, angel,” he said in a low voice that raised goosebumps along Aziraphale’s arms.

Aziraphale swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “How’s that, my dear?”

“If it wasn’t weird to run my finger over my mate’s chest and I felt that rabbit, I think I’d feel real fluff.” His mouth quirked. “So you were right. You _did_ learn how to make something like that bow tie.”

“Oh,” he breathed. He could feel the heat radiating off his face. Oh dear. “That’s…that’s very sweet, thank you, Crowley.”

“S’not sweet, s’true,” he mumbled.

“The two are hardly mutually exclusive.”

Crowley huffed. “What I’m trying to say is…it was remarkable.”

He brought his hand up to his sunglasses again. Aziraphale held his breath, hoping… But once again, the sunglasses stayed on.

“ _You’re_ remarkable,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale had thought his face couldn’t burn any more intensely, but he’d been wrong. “What a thing to say,” he marveled softly, falling back on a Tracy-ism.

But Crowley just nodded sharply and sauntered out of the shop.

He blinked in surprise, but then Eric was rushing past the front desk with a hurried, “Thanks again, Aziraphale! I can’t wait to show everyone!”

And then the shop was strangely empty.

That is, he could still hear Lesley’s tattoo machine running. Carmine was finally getting a rendition of her beloved red motorcycle. And from the low conversation, he could tell that Raven was still here.

But out in the front, the shop — and Aziraphale himself — still felt empty.

With no more appointments for the day, Aziraphale took up a post in his waiting area library with his sketchbook to handle any walk-ins. Not that he expected any. The vast majority of the shop’s work came through appointments.

He sketched almost mindlessly.

Almost, that is, because his thoughts kept returning to Crowley. To Crowley teasing him about his bow ties. To Crowley pointedly pushing the largest slice of cake to him across the kitchenette table. To Crowley throwing his head back and laughing because he truly enjoyed one of _Aziraphale’s_ stupid jokes. To Crowley stopping Eric’s pushing about a movie night. To Crowley defending him against a possibly offensive nickname.

To Crowley saying “You’re remarkable.”

Finally, he set his pencil aside, sketch complete.

And Crowley’s beautiful eyes stared back at him. With a few sweeping lines, he’d managed to capture a surprised and somewhat pleased expression. The same expression he had seen when he’d first called Crowley “my dear.” For some reason, that’s the expression he came back to time and again.

He flipped idly through his sketchbook. Page after page after page was crammed with sketches of Crowley’s eyes. They were unlike any eyes Aziraphale had seen, and he couldn’t get them out of his head. Twice today he’d hoped that he’d get to see them again, but…

Crowley had implied that everyone — including himself — hated his eyes, but Aziraphale couldn’t agree. Once one got past the initial shock of the slit pupils, it was easy to sink into the expressive pale gold irises, hypnotic as a snake’s unblinking gaze.

As he had told the man two weeks ago, his eyes were truly lovely. He only hoped Crowley would see that one day.

Stomach twisting uncomfortably for some reason he couldn’t name, he turned to a blank page and began sketching them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death was named after his actor. And it fits. After all, every group needs a Brian. ;)
> 
> Thanks again to the Pufferfish Yoghurt Starters!


	6. Pub Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's having a good day until he gets two new customers at his pub, Hair of Dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to figure out ways for Crowley and Aziraphale to interact more before the cover up tattoo was complete and it felt weird for Crowley to just drop by the shop, so this scene was born. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Also, my friend Andrea ([@acsalva_art](https://twitter.com/acsalva_art)) made me a lovely picture of tattoo!Aziraphale! You can see him at the bottom of the chapter. He's giving Crowley his next tattoo (spoiler alert). <3
> 
> C/W: fat-shaming

Up until 3 p.m., Crowley had been having a good day.

Not that anyone could tell that from the outside, of course. Adam had woken him up at 5 a.m. to beg off work because his sister was suffering through the miracle of birth. Then Adam had woken him up _again_ at 5:07 — yes, he’d checked — to say that Pepper would be filling in for him. Crowley had simply reminded him that this was a mobile number and could be _texted_ (which is what his Gen Z employees usually did) and gone back to sleep in the middle of Adam’s explanation that his dad was standing over him making him call to make sure Crowley got the messages.

Then his antique Bentley wouldn’t start, for no discernible reason. He’d been forced to — ugh — take public transportation. Then a man with a mop of white hair who smelled of poo rammed into him on the pavement, dumping Crowley’s cup of coffee all down the front of his shirt and blazer. If he’d had his Bentley, he would have had a spare change of clothes to switch to when he reached work. Of course, if he’d had the Bentley, he wouldn’t have had the displeasure of running into actual people in the first place.

When he reached his pub, Hair of Dog, his line cook Wensleydale met him with a grill with only one working burner and a sound system that ate his Best of Queen CD.

By all rights, it should have been a shit day. Possibly on Crowley’s list of top ten worst days.

But no. The reason today was a good day was because his next tattoo session was booked for tomorrow. He hadn’t been able to get Aziraphale out of his head for weeks, and he would finally be able to see him again in person.

 _Without_ Eric this time.

And then his tattoo would be done, he’d no longer be Aziraphale’s client, and he could _finally_ invite the man out to dinner. Sometimes it felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin with all this anticipation.

Adam, his most senior employee, had commented on Crowley’s dopey smile more than once over these past few weeks. If the kid wasn’t so competent, and the son of a family friend, and also fucking right, Crowley would have sacked him ages ago.

So despite the eventful morning, and Pepper showing up two hours late because of some younger sister’s trombone lesson accident Crowley refused to ask about, and the mobile networks across all of London going down because of rat-infested towers or some such rubbish — anyway despite _all that_ , Crowley was having a rather good day of it.

And then at 2:59, Aziraphale opened the front door, and Crowley’s high-flying heart soared past the stratosphere.

Aziraphale! Here! He’d never expected to see Aziraphale outside the tattoo shop, let alone at his own pub! And with the pub nearly empty, there was no reason he couldn’t dote on the angel’s every whim, sit by his side for as long as he’d be allowed.

And then as the minute hand crossed into 3 pm exactly, Raven entered the pub — plunging Crowley’s heart left-ventricle-first into a pool of boiling sulphur.

Today had officially made the top ten worst days list.

Crowley, having automatically been drawn toward Aziraphale on sight, made an about face next to the bar — but he wasn’t fast enough.

“Crowley!” exclaimed the angel.

Hiding a grimace, Crowley kept spinning in the world’s sloppiest pirouette until he was facing his new customers again. “Aziraphale! Hi.”

Raven smiled in that way he reserved for Crowley, sincere but all teeth. “Nice to see you again, Crowley.”

“Yeah,” he said, noting futilely that the space between the two men was practically non-existent.

“Fancy meeting you here!” said Aziraphale. To his credit, he sounded genuinely delighted to have found Crowley out in the wilds of London. Rather like if one had found a stray dog one had seen before. “Are you having a late lunch, too? Why don’t you join us!”

Crowley wasn’t sure who was more startled by the suggestion: him, Raven, or Aziraphale himself, going by the reddening of his cheeks.

And even though Crowley had been fantasizing about that very prospect twenty seconds ago, those fantasies had _not_ included a third wheel. And between Raven’s black shirt and polished shoes, Crowley had no grounds to deny him service and evict him from the pub, more’s the pity.

“No,” said Crowley, holding his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t make any rude gestures. “No late lunch. This is my pub.”

“Really?” Aziraphale looked around with renewed interest. Crowley wondered what he thought of the classic rock theme. “I’m so glad you wanted to try this place, Raven.”

The man’s own thoughts about the pub’s ownership were unreadable. “Maybe Crowley would be kind enough to show us to the nicest table?”

As far as Crowley was concerned, all the tables were nice. The only thing keeping him from shoving Raven into a booth directly under a speaker blaring You’re My Best Friend was the fact that Aziraphale wouldn’t appreciate it. So he snatched two menus and led them to a booth that was in direct line of sight with his station at the bar. He’d rot in hell before giving Raven the privacy and encouragement of a dark corner booth.

Aziraphale gave a little wiggle as he settled into his seat, then pulled out the glasses he used to tattoo so he’d be able to read the menu.

Raven didn’t bother touching his. Before Crowley could escape, he asked, “How long have you been running the Hair of the Dog?”

 _Running_ , like he didn’t believe Crowley could own it.

“Actually,” Crowley said in that tone Wensleydale liked to adopt for correcting people, “it’s the Hair _of_ _Dog_. We haven’t had a ‘the’ in centuries.”

Long before Crowley’s great-grandparents had even been thought of as potential offspring, the “the” had fallen off of the “Hair of the Dog” sign. London had shrugged, and the pub’s name had shortened accordingly.

“Oh, how delightful!” cried Aziraphale after his explanation. He actually clasped his hands in excitement. He turned to his companion. “That’s a particularly charming piece of etymology, don’t you think?”

The companion made a noncommittal noise and turned to his menu.

“If you like that,” said Crowley, “one of my employees got a terrier that looks identical to the one on the sign. Know what he named him?”

Aziraphale considered. “Hair-y?”

He laughed. “Close. Dog.”

Raven’s eyebrows furrowed in clear judgment. “He named his dog…Dog.”

“Yep. Tells customers their first drink of the day includes one of Dog’s hairs.”

“And that doesn’t run off business?”

“Nah. Most people have a sense of humor. But I’ve had more tourists than you’d reasonably expect actually _request_ the hair.”

Aziraphale hummed. “Of course. As part of the quintessential British experience _._ ”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps we should indulge as well,” he said thoughtfully, but Crowley still caught that damned twinkle in his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on the _experience._ ”

“Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. Dog isn’t on the premises.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” said Aziraphale with a little pout that implied he sincerely wished to have a small yappy dog about.

“Travesty,” agreed Raven dryly, implying he knew better than to wish for that.

“In that case, what else would you recommend?” Aziraphale finally slipped on his glasses and looked down at the menu. “Any favorites?”

He struggled past a newly rough throat. “Erm, shepherd’s pie’s pretty good. Lamb, not beef, and Wensley makes about the healthiest version you’ll find in London.”

“That sounds perfect, thank you. What about you, dear boy?” he asked Raven.

The man handed his menu back pointedly. “A small side salad. Ta.”

Tosser. “Right. I’ll go put your orders in. Pepper will be by to handle drinks.”

He took the other menu from Aziraphale (who thanked him) and dragged himself back behind the bar, where he had a perfect view of the angel.

This was going to be a torturous afternoon.

Pepper swept in for the drink order, as promised. From Crowley’s position, it looked like she and Aziraphale were getting on like long lost friends. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he could see Raven’s smile becoming more and more forced, which suited him just fine.

Aziraphale dug out his wallet and handed something to Pepper. Then he handed her something else. Crowley raised an eyebrow. It was too early in the meal for a tip.

He stopped Pepper as she passed his station. “What did he give you?”

She rolled her eyes and flashed a collection of business cards for Aziraphale Godwin. “Mum doesn’t want me to get a tattoo because she says it’s dangerous, but this guy and his shop have the Anthony Crowley Seal of Approval. She can’t have any objections now.”

It wasn’t hard to figure out who the other business cards were for. “And you think Wensleydale’s going to want a tattoo?”

“He might! That’s why I got him a card.” She huffed, and he recognized the onset of a rant. “I’m not going to exclude him by assuming I know what he wants.”

“I don’t care,” he said quickly, “just put in their order and then you can give Wensleydale his card.”

“That’s just like a member of the patriarchy,” she continued as he began to steer her toward the kitchen, “thinking they know what’s best for a person without even considering that person’s own wants and needs.”

“Tell-Wensley-it’s-less-painful-than-he’s-imagining-goodbye.”

He pushed her through the kitchen door and her flood of words were instantly muffled. He groaned into his hand. Pepper was a landmine of forthright opinions. Usually he welcomed her rants, encouraged them even. But today was not a usual day.

He couldn’t unglue his gaze from Aziraphale’s profile. The man prattled on to his lunch partner — his _date_ , Crowley had to admit, though the concept made him want to swallow his own tongue — completely unaware of the pub owner’s snake eyes boring into him. The artist was animated, talking with his hands, a permanent blush on his cheeks.

When his palm came to rest on the table, Crowley felt a flare of jealousy for his _furniture_.

When Raven’s hand covered Aziraphale’s, Crowley saw red.

Shattering glass broke him out of his spell. The couple at the table jumped apart and twisted in their seats to find the source of the sound. He looked down at his feet to find the sparkling remains of a glass. He couldn’t remember picking one up.

Warm fingers wrapped securely around his forearm and for one crazy moment, he thought Aziraphale had come over to help him. But instead of meeting understanding blue-grey eyes, he met Pepper’s fiery dark ones.

“I think you need a break, boss,” she said, steering him resolutely toward the back. “Nothing to worry about,” she called out to the rest of the pub, whose trickle of patrons were undoubtedly watching. Crowley refused to see how Aziraphale was reacting to him being manhandled by his staff. To see if he was being comforted by his _date_.

Pepper’s fingers tightened on his arm. “Keep it together. We’re almost outside, yeah?”

The kitchen was a blur of appliances and shelves. Pepper warned Wensleydale about the broken glass and said she’d clean it up after, whatever that meant. Wensley blinked at them behind owlish glasses, and then they were out the back door into the alley littered with trash and recycling bins.

Pepper finally released him, but he just felt like he’d been set adrift in the empty darkness of space.

“If you’re going to shout, best do it out here,” she told him. “Maybe aim at the Johnsons’ pub, they could do with a scare.”

Fun as that would have normally sounded, Crowley didn’t have it in him to shout today. He brushed down his sleeve. He didn’t need to look to know there was going to be light bruising. “If you’re interviewing for a bouncer, well done, you’ve got the job.”

Pepper crossed her arms. “Do I get a raise?”

He missed the days of rotating staff. Short-term employees never challenged his shit. “No raise, but you get to throw drunks out, that’s a perk, isn’t it?” He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “This is a bit of an overreaction to a broken glass.”

“This isn’t about the glass.”

“It was an accident,” he said. Anxiety started to bubble beneath his skin. The longer he was out here, the more time Raven had to get up to something.

“It’s not about the glass,” she insisted. “Just thought you could use some air.”

He didn’t like that knowing tone.

“I’m fine,” he bit out.

“Not according to the glass.”

“You said this wasn’t about the glass!”

“You think Adam’s the only observant one?” she asked archly. She flashed her mobile. “I told Adam and Brian your boyfriend was here with another man. Adam said to keep an eye on you. Also that he has a niece now. Helen.”

“Tell him congrats. Also Aziraphale isn’t my boyfriend. He’s my tattoo artist.”

Pepper’s unamused expression could level whole city blocks. “What, he can’t be both?”

Crowley returned her glare, and if it wasn’t for the sunglasses blocking the expression, she would have quailed beneath it. Yep. The sunglasses were the only reason his glare was ineffective.

“Look,” he said, “it’s sweet that you kids think you need to look after me —”

“ _You’re_ not,” she retorted. “And nobody else is going to do it. Have you even _told_ Mr. Godwin how you feel? Or do you just scowl at whoever he talks to?”

“I don’t scowl.” He reconsidered. “I don’t scowl at _everyone_.”

“You know what I mean.”

He treated her to a scowl of her own. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I _can’t_ tell him how I feel. Not yet. I’m his customer. There’s a…power dynamic…thing.”

“But now he’s _your_ customer. It evens out.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“This is stupid.”

“Yes!” He made a wide, sweeping gesture with both hands. “It’s infinitely stupid! But it’s how being an adult works.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “So when _are_ you going to tell him? When he gets back from his honeymoon?”

“Tomorrow, alright, that soon enough for you?” he snapped. Then he ran a hand through his hair again. “My tattoo will be done, I’ll no longer be a customer, and I can finally do something about this.”

Pepper considered stonily, as if this question was for higher stakes than her boss asking out his crush. Then she nodded. “Good. Don’t let us down.”

“No, ma’am. Of course, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Shut up.”

But at least she let him back inside his own pub.

He waved Pepper off and cleaned up his own mess with the glass. It gave him a healthy distraction from watching Aziraphale and Raven on…on their _date_. His skin prickled whenever they were out of view, whenever he couldn’t keep an eye on the situation. Which was ridiculous. He had no claim over Aziraphale. And even if they _were_ a couple, Aziraphale could still have lunch with whoever he goddamn wanted.

It didn’t work. His jealousy would not be swayed by logic.

After every splinter of glass had been picked up, Crowley busied himself with more cleaning, but only with tasks that kept his eye-line above the bar. It wasn’t healthy, but it kept the prickling at bay.

Meanwhile, things seemed to be going well for Aziraphale. He was still chattering away with a broad smile. And he clearly savored every bite of that shepherd’s pie. Crowley was both relieved and disappointed that he wasn’t within earshot to hear that savoring, those quiet moans of delight with every mouthful…

Crowley quickly redirected his thoughts toward the ice bin he was filling. Ice. Cold. Very cold.

When the prickling grew overwhelming again and he dared to glance back, Raven was sliding out of the booth with a mobile to his ear. Aziraphale wasn’t following. He simply took another bite of his meal.

Raven strode out of the pub, and Crowley realized he was about to do something very stupid. Gluttons for punishment have very low self control, it turns out.

Before the door of the pub had even closed, Crowley slithered into the booth opposite Aziraphale. The artist jumped in surprise, but broke into a radiant smile.

“Crowley!”

He had planned to make a snarky comment on the kind of gentleman who abandons his date, but the thought evaporated in the face of Aziraphale’s warm welcome. He nodded at the mostly-empty bowl. “All right?”

“Oh, yes! It was scrumptious.” Aziraphale raised his napkin to his lips to pat away, well, nothing that Crowley could see. Not that he had been paying any particular attention, of course.

Sometimes it was a relief to have sunglasses to hide behind.

Crowley cleared his throat. “I’ll, er, pass that on to Wensley. He could do with the morale boost.”

“Is that your chef?”

His mouth quirked up. “Line cook, we don’t have chefs, but yeah. Took a chance on his healthier versions of pub food, but it seems to have worked out for the best. Always have loads of people in.”

As if on cue, they both looked out at the near empty pub.

“Not at 3:30 in the afternoon, obviously, but at normal hours, this place is more crowded than the bowels of hell.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Aziraphale patted his lips again before setting the napkin aside. “Please tell this Wensley that this was the most delectable shepherd’s pie I’ve eaten in decades and I will definitely be returning.”

His stomach flipped exactly the way a coin glued to the pavement wouldn’t. The prospect of seeing Aziraphale again outside of the tattoo shop, even as a customer, was intoxicating. “I hope you mean that, angel, cause I’m going to hold you to it.”

Aziraphale’s grey-blue eyes met his despite the sunglasses, sending a jolt down his spine. “I hope you do.”

Ngk.

The angel cleared his throat and dropped his eyes. “H-How’s Eric?” he asked before taking another bite of his pie.

“Insufferable,” Crowley rushed to say over Aziraphale’s appreciative noises. “He keeps stripping off his shirt to show everyone your tattoo.”

“At least he’s not quoting Monty Python.”

“No, he’s doing that, too.”

“Oh, well, that _is_ unfortunate.” He took another bite, then patted his lips with the napkin. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

All the joyful anticipation that had sustained him through an otherwise tough morning came flooding back. “Course. I’m going to eat three breakfasts this time, even.”

“Now that sounds excessive.” Aziraphale’s teasing smile alone would be enough to get Crowley through the rest of the day.

“I am,” he insisted, and resolved on the spot to bring the angel another treat tomorrow morning. “Do you drink coffee?”

Over Aziraphale’s sputtering answer lay a smooth, rich voice saying, “He’s not much of a coffee drinker. Prefers to stick with his old favorites, right, milkshake?”

Crowley swallowed a hiss for the man looming over his shoulder. Didn’t Raven realize this was a private conversation?

Aziraphale glanced between them, the picture of confusion. “That’s true, I do prefer tea, but…I don’t…”

“Are you joining us after all, Crowley?” asked Raven. He moved to Aziraphale’s side of the booth, and the angel began to scoot down the bench to make room.

Crowley shot to his feet, but it was too late. Raven had squeezed into the booth, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh with Aziraphale. The bench was definitely wide enough that they didn’t have to budge up together, but they had and, painfully, Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. He was simply pulling his meal further down the table, as if they shared benches all the time.

He closed his eyes for a moment to get a hold of himself. He had _no right_ to be jealous. He was being _ridiculous_.

But that didn’t mean he had to sit here and watch his heart implode in HD.

“Actually, could I tempt you to a spot of dessert?” he asked instead, adopting the professionalism of a proper manager instead of one who chats up customers. “I can grab you a menu, or…”

Aziraphale’s face lit up, but Raven said, “That won’t be necessary. Just the bill, please.”

Crowley ignored him and kept his eyes on the angel. “Aziraphale? What would you like?”

He hummed. “Do you have any sticky toffee pudding?”

If they didn’t, he’d order a pudding from the Johnsons’. “Course we do.”

“Aziraphale,” said Raven in a warning tone. “Milkshake. Are we sure that’s wise?”

Aziraphale’s face fell. He gave a faint, “what?”

“We had a pretty large lunch already. Don’t tell me you’re still hungry.”

What the fuck?

Crowley could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Are you seriously telling a grown man what to order?”

The wanker had the nerve to chuckle like they were old friends. “I’m just looking after his health.”

Aziraphale had paled. He didn’t seem to appreciate this looking after any more than the countless other partners Crowley had seen subjected to this brand of “care.”

“So we’ll just take the bill,” said Raven.

Crowley nodded. “I’ll be back with the bill _and_ the sticky toffee pudding. On the house.”

The angel’s relieved and grateful expression burned into Crowley’s memory as brightly as any life event. This pudding was immediately worth more than a thousand cakes.

“How kind,” said Raven, an edge of annoyance in his voice. “But we don’t need it.”

“It’s no problem.”

“Aziraphale?” Raven said, half-turning.

The artist looked like a rabbit in the headlights. “Raven?”

“Tell him we don’t need it.” And then the prat shot a pointed look at Aziraphale’s middle.

Crowley’s blood boiled at that stupid glance. His fingers curled into a fist to stop him hauling the man to his feet and throwing him out of the pub, but he had fists now, that wouldn’t stop him throwing a punch or two —

“I don’t need it,” said Aziraphale. But his blue-grey eyes glinted like steel as he continued, “I would _enjoy_ it. Now, I know you have to return to work, dear boy, so you don’t need to wait with me while I have my dessert. I can cover the bill, as well, so don’t worry about that.” His prim smile didn’t even consider reaching his eyes. “It’s a lovely day outside. I would hate to deprive you of it a moment longer.”

Then Aziraphale Godwin turned back to the rest of his shepherd’s pie, humming with contentment at his next bite.

Crowley had never wanted to kiss someone so much in his life. But he thought it might ruin the moment.

For his part, Raven seemed stunned. He watched Aziraphale for a few seconds before throwing up his hands. “Fine.” He inched his way out of the booth. “Fine.”

He grabbed his leather jacket from the opposite bench. A sleeve smacked Crowley’s leg, but he just gave the man a mocking smile.

A sneer flashed across Raven’s face. “Later, milkshake.”

And then, without a backwards glance, Raven stormed out of the pub. The door slammed behind him, rattling the frosted glass panes.

Aziraphale patted away any crumbs from his last bite of pie. “Yes, I think sticky toffee pudding will be just the ticket.”

Resisting the urge to plant that kiss on those prim lips, Crowley spun on his heel. “Leave it to me, angel.”

He hovered over Wensleydale as the cook prepared the pudding, enduring the knowing looks his employees traded.

“What?” he growled.

“That was wicked,” said Pepper. “Warn me next time, I’ll get a video.”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“You’re joking, right? Mr. Godwin’s like the only one left.”

“Actually, there are two more tables,” said Wensleydale as he poured the caramel.

“That’s why I said ‘like.’”

“Yeah, powerful conversation,” said Crowley, picking up the finished pudding and heading for the door. “Very scintillating.”

As he entered the front room, he caught Aziraphale’s head whipping around to face ahead of him. Had he been watching for Crowley? The logical part of his brain insisted the angel had been watching for the pudding, or just looking around the pub while he waited. But the logical part of his brain could fuck right off.

He reached Aziraphale’s table and froze. All he needed to do was set the plate down. Aziraphale even watched him expectantly with a warm smile.

But he couldn’t. Not without doing something else stupid first.

“Look. I feel sort of bad helping to drive off your —” he waved toward the front door with his free hand. He didn’t actually feel bad, but it felt like the thing to say. “If you’d like some company, I could join you? Or you could come over to the bar and eat this there? Only if you want, obviously.”

Aziraphale didn’t even hesitate. “That sounds lovely, thank you!”

Before Crowley could ask which of the two options he’d said yes to, he was already shifting his way down the bench. Then he grabbed his drink and followed Crowley over to the bar. It took him a few tries to hop high enough to perch on the bar stool, but once he was all settled, Crowley presented him with his hard-won sticky toffee pudding.

The angel hummed as he regarded it. “Thank you again for the offer. I imagine your company will be a sight better than my earlier companion’s.”

Crowley hadn’t moved away. He wasn’t shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh with Aziraphale, but they were almost hip too hip. He leaned his elbows behind him on the bar and shook his head. “I’m sorry Aziraphale, but I don’t understand how you could go on a date with that piece of shit”

He felt more than saw Aziraphale flinch at his side. “What? I didn’t go on a date…” The angel grabbed his forearm, right over the bruises Pepper had left. “Wait, was that a _date_?”

Crowley blinked at him from behind his sunglasses. “You don’t know?”

“I never know!” he protested. “He never said…I thought we were just getting lunch?”

“Yeah, a lunch date.” Crowley pulled his sunglasses down so he could see Aziraphale over them. They were close enough that he could hear the artist’s breath hitch as they locked eyes. “Or do you normally hold hands with friends at lunch?”

“I thought that was strange,” he said softly. “He’s a good friend of my ex-boyfriend, I’ve known him over ten years, I never even considered…oh dear. It seems I’ve made a mess of things.”

“Of course you haven’t, angel. _He’s_ the one who was out of line.” He pushed his sunglasses back up and nodded at the pudding. “Better get to enjoying that, or I’ll have to re-heat it.”

“We wouldn’t want _that_ , would we?” Aziraphale wiggled in his seat and then took his first careful bite. His eyes fluttered closed and he let out a tiny moan of appreciation that did nothing to Crowley’s body, nope, not a thing. “Delicious. Truly. Please thank Wensley again.”

“Sure.”

Aziraphale ducked his head and shot him a glance through his eyelashes that went straight to Crowley’s core. “I haven’t thanked you yet.”

“Nyeah,” he drawled. “No thanks needed.”

“You stood up for me.”

“Yeah, but you did the heavy lifting.”

“True. But the number of people who have stood up for me in that kind of situation can be counted on one hand. I don’t even need that many fingers.”

Crowley grimaced. “Here. I’m making your whole meal free. You can thank me for that instead.”

“Oh, Crowley,” he cried, “that’s too much.”

“‘M not letting you pay for that prat’s meal.”

“My meal cost more than that little salad, really, it’s no trouble.” He started to pull out his wallet.

“It’s too late!” declared Crowley. “Any money you put down is just going to be a tip for Pepper.”

“Then she is getting a very generous tip.” Aziraphale laid a number of notes on the bar. “Feel free to split it between her and Wensley.”

“I will.”

“And thank you,” he finished. “Though for what, I shall not say.”

“Bastard,” Crowley said fondly.

That earned him another wiggle as Aziraphale returned to his pudding.

Yep. Tomorrow was going to be a good day indeed.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand Raven has officially written himself out of the fic! That was unexpected.
> 
> Thank you everyone for the lovely comments!! I can't tell you how much they mean to me. <3 <3 <3 And thank you again to the Pufferfish Yoghurt Starters for all the encouragement as I battled this monster chapter.
> 
> Next up: back to the tattoo shop!


	7. Second Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to finish Crowley's cover up tattoo, but Aziraphale is having a bad day.

Aziraphale didn’t sleep well. When he watched the clock tick over to 5 a.m., he decided to give up and shuffle downstairs to the shop. He wanted to read, but knew that would go about as well as sleep had, so he pulled out his sketchbook and settled into one of the armchairs in the waiting area.

He flipped through pages and pages of eyes, and hands, and profiles. He hadn’t realized how…compelled he had been these last few weeks. He’d say it was bordering on creepy, but he had a feeling he had long passed that boundary.

With a sigh, he turned to a fresh page, and began to sketch apple blossoms. He had studied them for the cover up piece, but had discarded the idea in the end for muddying up the image. Besides, he’d looked up the meaning of apple blossoms in flower language, and he thought “I prefer you before all” was a bit confusing coming from the Serpent of Eden.

He didn’t come back to himself until he heard Tracy’s cheery laugh as she entered the shop. He checked his pocket watch. Almost 8:05. And laid before him was a two-page spread of apple blossoms among the leafy branches of their tree.

“Oh!” Tracy stopped in the middle of the room, Lesley just behind her. “Good morning, love! The front door was locked so I just assumed you were still upstairs.”

“Yes, well.” He rubbed a hand over his face, but it didn’t make him feel any better. “I’ve been up for quite a while, it seems.”

“Too much excitement last night,” Lesley observed sagely. “Maude and I run a mean game of charades.”

“Yes, that must be it,” Aziraphale said, knowing that wasn’t even close to the answer.

“Mr. S says we’re not allowed to do pictionary again,” said Tracy. “Wasn’t fair, he said, competing against real artists.”

“Oh, it’s just a bit of fun,” Lesley protested. “Maude wants to make a little portfolio out of all our pictionary art. Newt offered to scan everything for her, too.”

“Isn’t that sweet.” Tracy moved over to the front desk and turned on the computer. “You know, I like that Anathema for him. She’ll bring some steadiness to his life. I have a good feeling about her.”

Aziraphale closed his sketchbook and got to his feet as quietly as he could. The conversation was getting dangerously close to —

“Now we just need to find someone for you!” she told Aziraphale brightly. “Someone you can partner up with next time, and make the teams even!”

He forced himself to smile, but he wasn’t sure how convincing it was. “Yes. Wouldn’t want to disappoint for game night.”

“If we get up to eight people,” said Lesley, “might force me and Maude to move out of the flat and into a house!”

“That’s an exciting step!” said Tracy.

Aziraphale sidled past his employees, making affirmative noises, and escaped as fast as he could into his room. He knew the “even teams” thing had been a joke, but it still hurt. Maybe he could follow Tracy’s lead and bring a new person every two weeks. If he had any other friends he thought might be interested in dinner and game night…

He immediately thought of Raven and shook his head. That was _not_ happening. Raven had burned that bridge yesterday — after dousing it in kerosene, too. No, that was one friendship he was willing to drop. He’d had enough people in his life trying to control his “health,” and he certainly didn’t need a, a _boyfriend_ who did that.

And despite what some in his past might advise, no, it was not worth being in a relationship with someone just to be in a relationship. He was not going to put up with Raven’s controlling behavior just to “make the teams even.”

He blinked, and realized he’d been clutching his sketchbook to his chest.

Oh, _blast_. He needed to start setting up for Crowley’s session. And drink some tea. And scrounge up some toast.

It was going to be a long day.

He had just finished setting out his ink caps when there was a brisk knock just outside his room. “Come in,” he called.

Crowley stuck his head into the doorway. “Morning, angel.” And then the rest of his body followed, revealing that he was carrying a cup carrier with two cups. “Brought you some tea this time.”

Aziraphale felt numb. And also like his brain had been replaced with crumpled paper. “Oh.”

“Wasn’t sure what you wanted. Went with English Breakfast? That alright?” He tilted his head. “Are _you_ alright?”

Oh. “Oh. Yes. Tickety boo. Thank you.”

“S’alright,” he said, but with a careful quality about it.

Crowley picked up one of the cups and held it out to him. For one crazy moment, Aziraphale wanted to refuse to separate the two drinks. But he was being ridiculous. They were only cups. Tracy was just getting inside his head with that “even teams” nonsense.

He reached out numb fingers, which brushed Crowley’s as he took the tea. The cup was hot, near burning through the cardboard covering, but the contact with Crowley’s skin sent electric shocks up his arms. It lingered longer than he usually felt with shocks from static electricity, and felt far stranger.

“Sorry,” he muttered, transferring the cup and shaking the affected hand. “This was very thoughtful of you, my dear, thank you.”

“Nah,” Crowley shrugged it off. “I was already there for my coffee. And I, uh, picked some up for Lesley and Tracy as well. No big deal.”

“Well. Still. It was awfully kind,” Aziraphale insisted.

His chest felt tight like it had last night. When he’d been sitting at the dinner table with three other couples and there was one remaining chair sat next to him, empty.

He blinked away the prickles behind his eyes. “Ah. I’m, uh, ready when you are.” He patted the tattoo chair with his free hand.

Crowley swayed, then seemed to do a double-take. “Right. Yeah. I’ll just.”

He took a long chug of his coffee while Aziraphale washed his hands. By the time Aziraphale had snapped on his nitrile gloves, Crowley was straddling the chair.

His client waited until he was seated on the wheelie stool before pulling his shirt up, revealing the in-progress tattoo. It was a mess of lines, but Aziraphale could easily follow the sharp black of the snake coiled amongst the leaves, apple, and faded black lettering. It only waited for Aziraphale to bring it to life.

“This healed well,” he informed Crowley as he shaved the area.

When Crowley didn’t respond, he wondered if he’d been heard, or if he’d spoken aloud at all. But then, ever so softly, Crowley said, “Aziraphale?”

His breath caught in his throat. His eyes burned, and he was grateful that Crowley couldn’t see him. He tried to clear his throat as subtly as possible so that he could answer. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

It was a simple question. A simple question that he could simply answer with a simple lie. All he had to do was say ‘yes,’ and then they could get on with the session, and he could lose himself in tattooing and not have to think about empty chairs sat next to him and empty flats he couldn’t sleep in and he could do what he does best and give someone, give _Crowley_ a lovely tattoo to match his lovely eyes and maybe then he wouldn’t feel so empty inside and —

Warm hands covered his own, and he startled. His vision was blurry and he blinked and blinked until he could see. And what he saw was that Crowley had somehow turned around in the seat. He was hunched over so he could hold Aziraphale’s hands, and even though he still wore his sunglasses, it was obvious his client was watching him intently.

“Angel,” he said, and it was the gentlest Aziraphale had ever heard him. “I’m canceling.”

He couldn’t process those words. “…what?”

“We’re not having a session today,” Crowley explained. “I’m canceling. Do you have any other customers today?”

Aziraphale hesitated, then shook his head.

“Good. Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

And then his warm hands were gone from Aziraphale’s, and the tattoo chair was empty.

“Oi, Tracy!” he heard from the hallway. “I’m stealing your boss.”

Aziraphale hurriedly swiped at his cheeks. They were dry, but hot, and he was sure his eyes were red. He didn’t really want to go anywhere…but he also didn’t want to sit around and wait for Tracy and Lesley to descend with well-meaning coos and camaraderie.

He started to clean up, and when Crowley returned he helped out silently and efficiently. It was only a matter of minutes before everything was taken care of.

Crowley brushed down his shirt and grabbed his leather jacket. “It’s still a little chilly outside. Do you have a coat?”

“Er. Upstairs. In my flat.” He pointed up as if Crowley might not know where upstairs was. “What…where are we going, exactly?”

He shrugged. “Just. Out. Unless you have somewhere in mind?”

“No. No, that’s fine. I’ll. Um. Be just a minute.”

“Take your time. I’ll be up front.” He jerked a thumb towards the front of the shop.

Seems Aziraphale wasn’t the only one pointing in obvious directions.

They split up. Aziraphale rushed past the next room, where Lesley had already begun tattooing his morning appointment, and made it to the back stairs that led up to his flat.

He couldn’t shake the sense that he was playing hooky. He was meant to be working, after all, not skiving off with his client. But despite all the other emotions inside him begging for attention, he felt an odd thrill at Crowley’s idea. Of getting out. Of getting away.

After grabbing his vintage cream coat, he joined Crowley at the front desk where Tracy was checking in an elderly gentleman as a walk-in.

“Now, Mr. Scroggie,” she was saying, “do you want anything _in_ the crystal ball? Or around it, perhaps?”

“No, just the phrase, ‘Johnny I never knew ye.’”

“You know,” chimed in Crowley, “I still don’t understand how you know his name is Johnny. You never knew him, after all.”

“Well that’s the point, innit?” asked Mr. Scroggie. “I never knew him.”

“Hush, you,” Tracy told Crowley. To her new client, she said, “Let me pull up some sample crystal balls and fonts and we’ll see what calls to you.”

“We should head out,” Aziraphale told his own client.

“Sure thing, angel.”

“Have fun, duckies!” Tracy called to their retreating backs without looking away from the computer where she was looking up references.

“I never knew anyone named Johnny,” they heard Mr. Scroggie say as they exited the shop. “Or John.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Aziraphale stopped and took a long, shuddering breath. The pressure in his chest had lessened, rather like if he had a full bookshelf weighing him down and someone had removed a row of tomes.

And there was no telling what would take their place.

“Okay, angel?”

Crowley stood two steps away from him, staying close by but giving him space at the same time. Aziraphale didn’t realize how much he needed that thoughtful balance until it was offered.

Noticing the hand held to his heart, Aziraphale lowered it self-consciously. “Ah. Yes. Fine. Shall we?”

They began to stroll down the pavement. Or rather, Aziraphale strolled. Crowley more sauntered, with his hips swaying side to side. He’d stuffed his hands in his pockets, the posture striking a strange cross between relaxed and defensive.

And Aziraphale had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

“Isn’t there a park nearby?” asked Crowley. “St James’s?”

“Yes, just a few minutes’ walk.”

“Excellent. We can start the day by feeding some ducks.”

Really? “…Ducks?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale protested quickly. “I’m just…surprised.Is all.”

“Because we can do something else!” said Crowley. “Thought feeding ducks would be relaxing. Mindless. But it’s only a suggestion.”

Warmth bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley’s kindness was shy and insecure, but he was trying to comfort Aziraphale and that meant the world.

“It’s a lovely idea,” he told Crowley. “We’ll just need to pick up some oats on the way.”

He was rewarded with a quiet smile that made him flush for some reason. Confused, he straightened his bow tie and dove into another topic of conversation.

They talked for hours. Crowley was so easy to talk to, and they never ran out of conversation. They talked all the way to the park, and throughout the entire time feeding the ducks. When they ran out of oats, they simply strolled through the park.

Crowley never once pressed Aziraphale for why he was upset earlier, as Tracy and Lesley would have done. But not in a dismissive way. He got the sense that Crowley was willing to let Aziraphale dictate terms. If he wanted to share, he could do so in his own time. If he didn’t, that was perfectly acceptable.

And that was wonderfully freeing.

“Here you are, angel.” Crowley offered him a red ice lolly.

“Oh. Thank you,” he said, accepting the ice cream with another brush of fingers that triggered another round of electric sparks. What was wrong with him today?

Crowley joined him on the bench with his own ice cream, vanilla with chocolate flake, and settled into a proper sprawl. The pose looked far more comfortable on a bench than on a wheelie stool.

Between the nice weather and the hours of walking, Aziraphale had warmed up enough that he’d been able to shuck his coat and roll up his sleeves again. He tilted his face toward the warmth of the sun. He could not have imagined this morning that his day would turn out like this.

“I think we’ve hit every food option in the park now,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “And all of the snacks were scrumptious. Though perhaps we should find a full meal for dinner tonight.”

He froze. Could feel the blood draining from his face. “That’s not. I mean. Only if you _want_ to, of course, I certainly don’t expect you to…you’ve already been tremendously generous with your time, and —”

Crowley held up a hand, stopping Aziraphale’s ramble in its tracks. “Full dinner it is! Honestly, I’m offended you think this is a _chore_ for me, angel.”

Words which would have stung if he hadn’t lowered his sunglasses and looked over them like he had yesterday. Aziraphale felt his breath hitch as if from far away. Those amber snake eyes he had been drawing for weeks were before him again, entrancing him and pinning him to the bench like prey. At the same time, he was flooded with warmth down to every finger and toe, and his chest ached with…something.

The sunglasses slid back into place, breaking the connection. Aziraphale sucked in an unsteady breath. How could Crowley dislike his eyes? They were absolutely mesmerizing.

And then he registered what Crowley had said. “Not…not a ‘chore,’ exactly. But you can hardly wish to spend your whole day with me. I’m merely your tattoo artist.” His mouth twisted at that, like a curdled smile, and he thumbed the hem of his velvet waistcoat.

“Nyeah,” came the drawl from his left. “I mean. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Stunned, Aziraphale raised his head. Crowley was looking off toward the duck pond, nonchalance incarnate. But Aziraphale fancied that he had gotten better at reading Crowley without being able to see his eyes, and he noted the tension in the corner of his mouth, and in the angle of his arm propped on the back of the bench. That casual question had cost him.

But he was so glad Crowley had taken that chance.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Yes, my dear, we _are_ friends.”

The tension eased from Crowley’s arm, as he finally relaxed, and the corner of his mouth began to curl. “Your ice cream’s melting, angel.”

Crowley’s suggestion for the afternoon was the Camden Market, which Aziraphale readily agreed to. The market was far enough to discourage walking, but it turned out that Crowley’s vintage car had broken down the day before. He apologized, which Aziraphale waved aside, and they took a bus.

It was easy to lose themselves in the market. Aziraphale pored over every book stall, of course, while Crowley’s eye was caught by an antique star chart and bottle of scotch. When they needed a break, they smoothly transitioned into people watching until they were ready to move on.

It was possibly the best holiday Aziraphale had had in a long, long time.

Crowley deferred to Aziraphale for dinner, and he chose a sushi place close to his shop. They dragged the meal out for as long as they reasonably could, but in the end were forced to leave. Crowley offered to walk Aziraphale back to his shop, and he readily accepted.

He wasn’t ready for his lovely day to end. The only move left was to invite Crowley up to his flat. That…that was a thing friends did, wasn’t it? That was fine.

But he didn’t want to ask Crowley up and have Crowley accept out of some obligation. Not when he’d already monopolized Crowley’s entire day.

But the thought of returning to that empty flat and having a repeat of last night was unbearable.

They slowed to a stop outside the door. The trite phrase “well, this is me” caught in Aziraphale’s throat.

Crowley swayed in place. “Well. This is you.”

A small huff of a laugh was dragged out of Aziraphale. He didn’t want to say goodbye. Not yet.

He wrung his hands, then ran a thumb along his right wrist tattoo, a quote from Oscar Wilde. _I can resist everything but temptation_.

Emboldened, he met Crowley’s gaze through the sunglasses. “Would you like to come up for a cup of tea, my dear?”

The relief in Crowley’s answering smile echoed Aziraphale’s to his core. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Aziraphale led him through the dark tattoo shop. When he’d left earlier, he hadn’t expected to be out for the entire day. Tracy and Lesley were going to have questions. And he wasn’t sure he’d have any satisfactory answers.

As they climbed the steps to his flat, he realized that he hadn’t hosted a visitor in over five years. His nerves started buzzing beneath his skin. His space was always cluttered. He hoped Crowley didn’t find it off-putting.

If anything, Crowley seemed…intrigued? Charmed? He looked around with interest at the books crammed into shelves and towering over every flat surface. Aziraphale hurriedly freed up space on his couch, dumping all of its contents on top of and next to his desk.

“Sorry about the mess,” he made sure to say as he ferried stacks of paper.

Crowley flapped a hand at him in dismissal. “Listen, angel. I know you said tea, but first I was thinking…night cap?” He raised the bag with his new bottle of scotch.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Aziraphale said before he could truly consider the offer. “You bought that for yourself, I couldn’t ask you to share it.”

“Good thing you didn’t ask then,” Crowley replied with a smirk, still holding the bag up. “Come on, you don’t think I bought this to drink alone, do you?” He made the bag sway like a watch in a hypnosis act. “Always meant to share it with a friend.”

 _Friend_. Aziraphale’s smile was slow and wide. “In that case, take a seat, and I’ll fetch some glasses.”

Aziraphale wasn’t much of a scotch drinker, but he did indulge on occasion. He found he was able to keep up with Crowley, glass for glass. After one glass, he no longer noticed the burn against his throat. After two, he moved from his armchair to the couch to show Crowley some of the drawings in his current notebook — _not_ the one with the snake eyes, whose inspiration was still covered by sunglasses, but his professional one.

And after three glasses, he was floating on a warm cloud high above the worries and anxieties of the past twenty-four hours. He rolled his head to the side to watch Crowley as he lay sprawled on his left, head thrown back against the back of the couch. With the sunglasses on, Aziraphale had no way to know if his eyes were open or closed. His chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep. It was like watching ocean waves.

“Your couch is much more comfortable than mine,” Crowley drawled. “Mine s’like a panel of cardboard, but…sturdier. Bu’ this? Could sleep a hundred years on this.”

Aziraphale’s eyes prickled. “I love Tracy,” he said.

Crowley’s chest froze mid-rise. When his breathing began again, it had picked up the pace. Crowley rolled his head as well so that they were watching each other. “You do?”

He nodded a fraction. “I love her. And Lesley. And Maude. I love them all. They’re my friends. But I don’t want to live like this anymore. I can’t.”

Hot tears streaked down his cheeks before he realized that his vision had gone blurry. He felt pressure on his left hand and guessed Crowley had taken it.

“Aziraphale.” His voice was soft and low. “Would a hug help?”

Without conscious thought, Aziraphale pitched toward that voice. His face landed on a thin chest and an arm instantly wrapped around him. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but Aziraphale burrowed further into Crowley’s embrace, wrapping his own arms around his friend’s waist.

And he cried.

He cried out every lonely feeling that had built up in him over the past thirty, nearly forty years. Every time his friends paired off and left him on his own. Every time he went to a function alone. Every time he only learned he’d been on a date after it had happened and the man had lost interest. Every time he returned to an empty flat with its empty chairs and empty bed. Every time he read a romance and was jealous of fictional characters.

Every time he’d lied about having a crush or being attracted to someone, when it was something he simply never experienced.

Every time he thought he was broken.

Slowly, piece by piece, he came back to himself. The cold on his cheek from the wet patch he’d cried onto Crowley’s shirt. The strange angle his spine was bent at to hug Crowley. The soothing motion of Crowley’s hand sweeping up and down his back. The pressure of Crowley’s chin on his shoulder.

He sucked in one last shuddering breath, and something about it must have cued Crowley.

“Feeling better?”

Before spitting out a rote “I’m fine,” Aziraphale took inventory. His limbs were heavy, whether from the crying or the alcohol he couldn’t say. But emotionally he felt drained — and lighter than he had all day. As if someone had removed every book from that bookshelf sitting on his chest.

“Better,” he agreed.

Crowley’s hand never stopped running over his back. Aziraphale hated to give that up, but his posture was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. With a sigh, he leaned back, and Crowley let him go.

“Thank you, my dear. I—I think I needed that.”

Crowley hesitated. “Do you want some tea?”

He nodded, and started to stand, but Crowley leapt to his feet with a “no, no, angel, I can get it.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve never even been in my kitchen.”

“How hard can it be to find the tea?”

Not that hard, but Aziraphale still insisted, and they ended up in the small kitchen together. Or rather, Aziraphale was in the kitchen, and Crowley leaned against the door jamb.

As he went through the ritual of preparing the agreed-upon chamomile tea, Aziraphale found words were slipping from his mouth faster than he could curate them.

“Lesley and his wife Maude host a dinner and game night every second Friday. It used to be just the four of us, a cozy affair. Then Tracy began bringing a new date every time, which was fine. And a young man named Newt moved in next door to Lesley and Maude. They began inviting him as well, and still it was fine.

“Then Tracy seemed to have settled on Sgt. Shadwell, because she’s brought him to our dinners for the last six months. You remember, the man who keeps getting tattoos from her? As I said before, it’s the strangest courtship I’ve ever seen, but it works for them.

“And still it was fine. Because I could team up with Newt and I always had someone to talk to when the couples paired off.

“But now Newt has someone of his own. And when all the couples pair off, I tend to get pushed to the side with no one to talk to. And it hurts more than I expected.”

The kettle whistled, and he turned off the heat. He focused on pouring tea and refused to look for Crowley’s reaction.

“Last month I brought a book along. Nobody even noticed I was reading for a full forty minutes.”

He handed Crowley his cup, still refusing to meet his sunglass-covered gaze.

“Last night I forgot my book.” He cracked a weak smile. “There’s only so many times I can try to enter a conversation before it’s less painful to give up. I’m afraid the whole situation finally got to me.”

He held his mug up to his face, welcoming the heat of the steam. When he heard Crowley sip his tea, he took the chance to glance up. Crowley’s long, black-painted fingers tapped silently against the tartan ceramic, and his thin lips had almost disappeared into a grim line.

Panic attempted to flurry in his stomach at everything he had just shared, but like him the butterflies were too exhausted. He felt a faint half-flutter, and then nothing.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Did you ever bring anyone to those dinners? Like Tracy?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale slumped against the refrigerator. “I, ah, never had anyone I wanted to bring.”

He felt a gentle touch on his arm and startled. Crowley tilted his head. “Let’s go back to the couch. I’m too knackered to stand around for long.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Aziraphale blurted out. “It’s been such a long day and I’ve kept you later than I had any right to —”

Crowley’s hand squeezed his arm and he cut himself off, embarrassed. “Wasn’t complaining, angel. Just thought it’d be nicer to sit.”

He nodded mutely and Crowley withdrew his hand. They shuffled back to the couch and sank into the cushions. Aziraphale had to admit, this _was_ nicer. They had done more walking today than he was used to, and he supposed he would feel it tomorrow.

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “Have you told Tracy and Lesley and the others how you feel?”

“No,” he admitted sadly. “They’re not acting maliciously.”

“Doesn’t have to be malicious to hurt. They seem like good people. I think they’d want to know if you’re unhappy. Then they could try to fix it.”

“I…I know. But this isn’t — this isn’t about the dinners, it’s not, the dinners are just a…a symptom. Exhibit A of an entire hall.”

Crowley frowned. “A symptom of what?”

Aziraphale suddenly wanted out of this conversation. He wasn’t prepared for it. So he lied. “I…I don’t know.”

His friend gave a long sigh. “I wish I had a magic solution to make everything right for you, Aziraphale, I really do.”

The sincerity rang in Aziraphale’s heart. “Thank you, my dear.”

“You know I’ll be here if you need anything, right? Well, not _here_ here, obviously. But as your friend?”

He felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude. “I’m glad you came to me for your tattoo,” he said with true feeling.

Crowley’s mouth crooked into a smile of agreement. “Any time, angel.”

They finished their tea with quiet conversation, and agreed to a final pot. By the time Aziraphale returned with the refreshed mugs, Crowley had sunk into the length of the couch — and slumber. On anyone else, the half-open mouth pressed into the cushion would have been a simple observation; but for some reason, on Crowley it was endearing.

He set the tea down, then carefully removed the sunglasses from his friend’s face as he had all those weeks ago. This time he felt a slight pang at the sight of those closed eyelids, hiding such beautiful creations. At the thought that Crowley would disagree with that sentiment.

A tuft of Crowley’s red hair flopped over his forehead. Urged on by some unknown force, Aziraphale reached out a hesitant hand and brushed it aside. His fingers grazed warm skin. He wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment, in this soft touch that had nothing to do with tattooing.

Crowley shifted and Aziraphale yanked his hand away guiltily. But the lovely eyes remained hidden, and their owner remained asleep.

Aziraphale’s fingers ached to touch him again, but if Crowley awoke he had no idea how to explain himself. So he forced himself to stand (unsteadily), to move away from the couch (in stilted movements), and to dig out a wool tartan blanket that snagged at the callouses on his fingers.

He draped the blanket over his…friend, and tucked him in without any further stirrings. He slid a thin pillow under his head, and Crowley leaned into the touch. Aziraphale’s heart fluttered against his ribs, and he allowed himself a few strokes of that red hair before once again pulling away.

“Thank you for today, Crowley,” he said softly. “It. Um. Made me feel less lonely.”

He expected another restless night, but for some reason the image of Crowley sprawled beneath his tartan blanket brought him a measure of comfort that overwhelmed his anxieties and lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ace spectrum hug* to anyone who needs it. <3


End file.
